A white-tail deer moons me, 
disappears behind clouds,
and I'm moon walking in the stumble-light
  
Tripping on potholes of moonman craters 
and astronaut seas 
mirrored in puddles
  
It is way past bedtime for stoats and voles,
they watch silent horror films of hawks, 
shadows that flicker on silver screen leaves
  
The taste of time on my tongue, 
my gloves soaked and cold 
from this morning's sleet
  
I trace a line to the Pole star, 
but is my filmy world a negative, I have it all 
backwards? Am I headed South, not North?
  
I walk in light, old and yellow as sticky tape,
peeled from b&w photos 
off the bottom of the sea

The Sunday Muse

Wind
bites through my skin –
white-capped teeth
off winter seas.

Sand whips
and tastes of banishment.
Umbilical prisoner,
I walk bleak Eden.

Rain breaks covenant,
floods, waterboards
my knowledge 
of good and evil. 

The Sunday Muse

The Sunday Muse

I guess just throw it
on the compost,
this dead swan at the bottom
of the road.
  
So much larger here at my feet –
a dead, feathered cello,
neck bent around to bow
a low moan.
  
It was never white, I can see
it was a living light,
bright silver now brushed with death
to mottled grey. 
  
Prisms of dew 
bead the wings –
tasting flights of fine oil
feeding mites.
  
No prayer 
here.
I roll like a dog
in dead words. 

The Sunday Muse

Winter rain splats like an egg 
in a cold frying pan.
This morning my mind 
is refrigerated, congealed,
a rictus of cheap margarine –
I scoop fat substitute thoughts
with a spatula. They splat in the pan too,
alongside the egg.

Isn't there meant to be
an order to things? Heat 
first, then butter, then egg?
Kitchen mullions rattle
as the Nor'easter tests their strength.
The vacant house across the way –
Is this the year the windows break?
Will it give up the ghost
in a final shiver of broken glass?

Outside in the storm, as with the world,
birds have abandoned flight.
No flying south to depilate winter,
the bikini waxing of dreams –
no tweezing the snow moustache
from elderly Florida swans.
No way to take the hair 
off it all.

You toss me a frozen bagel and laugh –
hardtack or life buoy 
for a morning's survival, 
my shipwrecked words 
wash ashore this deserted island.
The rain slants, cants,
through these old portholes. 

The Sunday Muse

The Sunday Muse

the Sheep-to-Shore 
phone rings
  
you say ignore 
the elephant in the room
  
during Thanksgiving dinner
its ass-end smell
  
turkey
and gasoline from 
  
the fuming motor
of democracy winching it
  
through the doorway
hoping the walls don't burst
  
then we can just go back
to where we left off 
  
our regular grift and
holding our noses for 
  
Isaiah 53:6 
all we like sheep 

The Sunday Muse