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

Nose Job

Don’t answer the
door
it’s that
rhinoceros,
the one you shooed from your
dream last
night.

But now it’s
day and here you
are, thickly skinned, sloe-
eyed, wrinkled grey beauty, your
nose a triumphant
horn that makes a
point

of existence and a fighting
chance, though a heavy
lift, and sometimes
extinction
doesn’t sound that
bad.



For Jilly’s enjambment jam

Quadrille 71

The wind homeless, shaky,
panhandling for drink,
then January blows into the street
like Dillinger from a bank –
it’s murder, fire exchanged in cold blood,
everyone diving for cover.
The not-so-great depression –
sunshine bitter, on the dole,
brother can you spare a dime?


For dVerse Quadrille

Après Moi le Déluge

Buy-One-Get-One-Free
chicken on sale, the tender breasts
repeated so tenderly I suffer
meat shock repeat after me my wife says
but I still forget and return short-handed, clew footed,
clueless, gizzardly beaked and peaked
with life and liberty and the pursuit of feed corn
sandwiched between life in the fast lane and mayonnaise
it crosses the road again and again
like some kind of pullet Sisyphus,
a chicken of the sea you can tune a guitar but you can’t tunafish,
chicken-handed left-winded side-wounded, wound rewound webfooted,
It bears repeating but no repeating bears since isn’t even one bear unbearable?
The cockscomb truth waggles in the telling
like wind in a two x two chambered heart —
my capon tastes like a castrato
singing in St. Peters




For dVerse MTB

Ground Zero

I visited Ground Zero in Lower Manhattan today
to see if poetry had taken root, like fireweed,
among the cracks in the rubble and the dead.
Instead I heard the voice of a friend

Who reminded me that
the study of death
and dying teaches
nothing.

And so I stood, empty handed,
again, without the grace
to give
or receive.



For dVerse Poetics