The River Incult

the geese nervous
in the wolf grass,
their necks question marks
unanswered

fishhook rain worms
cast in the shape of query
spit out and drowned in pools
on the sidewalk

the river incult, incant, trolling its
inquisition questionable, a
what have you
mist, missed?


For dVerse Quadrille

Quadrille 75

We hammered words
into the soil,
our mauls spiking
“necessity,” “desire,”
staking guy wires
to raised intent.

And the sun lay on the wind
like a pair of work gloves
left on a roll of cable,
the evening and
coming rain,
our unfinished labor.


For dVerse Quadrille

Quadrillion – Nectarine

Jammed my head
into the mud, let

my mind root around,
thoughts coming up

roses or thistles or
rutabagas,

dirty minded sure,
but what price

glory and riot
of color, scent,

her wandering
in my garden, pluck,

bringing to her lips,
sips, like nectar.


For dVerse Quadrille

Ezrasure

On Finding Ezra Pound, insane, locked outdoors in a cage in Italy after WWII
John Berryman, The Cage

This much is known: A bee winging it
at the resonance of quantum verse,
subatomic buzz weaponized
into stanzas, words in flight,
les mots juiced like wine –

can ride the fog of war from Idaho
to Pisa, then jackknife
out of the smoke into a cage
where he stings and swings
the cold bar blues.

Flying into rage, insults flying
like rain and sleet flying in the face
of reason, he’s St. Francis of the wasps
and hornets, nectar held tight between his knees,
praying in the sun to piss.

Unknown: how to equate
the velocity of scribbling, scrabbling
at the speed of unsound mind,
with reaching past sanity and breaking off combs
until detritus of poems run sticky in your hands.


For Jillys Where’s Ezra?

Salt Cod

A lifetime of trawling cod
from the Gulf of Maine –
a fisherman I knew

Would spray WD-40 on his knees.
Even better than motor oil he said –
and rub it in deep into the joints.

Gotta get some swing
back in the
hinges,

He said.
The body not a door
that closes with age,

But a boom that
sweeps and hauls out
over the waves

Year after year.
Close to the salt
but not of it.



For The Twiglets

Quadrille – Steep

Steep is the color
of my true love’s eyes,
cave cliffs
where swallows dive

Like falling love
at breakneck speed,
gravity redlines,
blinding, see

Courage,
shy wings bend
first close to her body,
then straighten, extending

Strength in curve and rise –
Grace. Precipice. Desire.


For dVerse Quadrille