TSM 110

today I
my 6-ton bottle jack
drained and replaced
the hydraulic fluid
scoured rust
with WD40
before that I had planned
to launch a rocket
of words
a fiery blast across the sky
but instead I lifted
the car 8 inches
off the ground
which is as close
as I can get
to flipping something over
and lighting the fuse

The Sunday Muse

Quickly Now

a pair of egrets flies long and low
up the estuary long and low
up the water long, beckoning
water, white and low
to the grasses where they nest
across from our window
feeling like flight,
feeling low,
stepping out –
my face hidden behind a white wing
folded across longing,
my legs as strung as reeds
from a nest of crow tangle –
copper and liquid crystals
woven ever tighter by zooming
in concentric circles, whirlpools
draining silica
from an hourglass like sand
never up and out,
never as white as those feathers
with no song,
swinging into the air
ready to dive and slice
into water, speed first

For Quickly

TSM 109

roses by the fence
have clawed their way
from thawed dirt

colors hungry
as if red and yellow had
hibernated underground

all winter
and now devour
the morning

it was you and I
hunkered along the path
between thickets

our eyes foraging
twigs and bristle
that left scars

down the bark
a sight too famished
for Spring

For The Sunday Muse

TSM 108

Aztec Two-Step

sometimes the old ways are the best ways
who needs vaccines, I say
let’s roll some heads tumblety-peg
into the volcano of contagion,
appease the lava god in our lungs,
intubate with obsidian knives

fellow free citizens –
you jaguar knights and eagle warriors –
a poet you must choose:
you will rip a heart from its ribs
and light a ceremonial hearth
in the hole in our chests

first paint me blue-starved O2
and surrender my body
to the cash pyramid and the priests
will you then all snake and feathers
dance with immunity
wearing my skin?

For The Sunday Muse

TSM 107

put a tiger in your tongue
we have a lot of mouths to feed
and only ferocious words on the hunt
to provide

fierce mothers day and night
with the moon like carrion,
dragging home the light
of a dying country, no game
to nourish our children

so if I call you ungulate – you wild pig you
odd-toed, craft-brewed deer –
will you be ungrateful,
flee that leap in my eye,
my mouthful of wonder?

For The Sunday Muse

TSM 106

What can you show me
with your spork mirror,
your runcible visions
of past, present, and future
like when we drove
through the take-out window
at Popeye’s
and unwrapped the cellophane
where you revealed not white plastic
that would break at a touch
and a napkin, but
a feast of all that had passed
in the rear-view, then
watching the rain through the windshield
our road ahead gone
because laughing together
once again
we were too late, too late
for whatever we imagined
the looking glass had on offer.

For The Sunday Muse

TSM 105

lost in a sadness of gold,
our fish killed herself in the night –
swimming up the bubbler jamming her body
in the tube, hose to the car exhaust
of deadly oxygen, engine running

toodle-loo goeth before the fall –
she’d tried it before, I’d rescued her
over and over what sorrows
went unseen in the bright mirror
she’d finned and scaled for us

water the unbearable clarity
of loneliness –
no company but the ennui of snails
and the alien deep-sea diver
unspeaking as a statue

the children came down to breakfast
and gathered round a bier of Kleenex
her wet outline the Shroud of Turin –
a Jesus-fish relic too sacred
to flush

its been years; I’ve been remiss
doesn’t everyone deserve
a proper suicide note –
do the same for me as I would for you
if it ever comes to that

For The Sunday Muse