That oily lit street cornerin the bronze dark..awaiting a scenebut, instead,so stark .
Move on, we must. In boxes and bins, I carry my proxy love to the Stow-Away garage. Outside, the smirking cat has his wild bones on, drawing a bead on a tattered squirrel that curves down a dead-bowed limb. Night In the lush bush, there's something that laughs. Treed, in a frightful dream it lolls,... Continue Reading →
You must be my Witch In the day, you are as plain as day I think you don't see me Maybe you think I don't see you but I am good at eyes Always in your greys and tans and flats Shiny swinging hair Bottle goggles to discourage the shallow You glow from the feathers... Continue Reading →
I speak in tonguessometimes.Surely at night,in deep sleep,but now, of late,in broad day.It started with watery voices,the makers of dream.We argued, for sport.But they’re no longer day blind,and I mimic their lies.
There's a small cabin in the pines by a secluded lake in north Ontario. I had rented it for two weeks every summer for twelve years. The Belvedere it is called. When its owner passed, his wife wanted me to have it, so we made a deal and it is mine now. Its shingles are... Continue Reading →
We come from the Sun,they say to me,from the wrong side of my ear.But why?Why for?I mumble in cotton.For answer,they show their hands,oven-mittened.See. See our thumbs.They are wide.Splayed and strong.We will gentle you,raise you from the gorge. Life is but a dream. *** Art by Michael Richardson
Why’d I dream of Skinnygirl?She was hardened,with wise eyes and a smile for sale.In our yappy group,standing in the drizzle,we fussed and discussed,looking to trust.But she stood out,most quiet and calm.Our magic Ellie.Her pounds were 98.6Our linchpin,our Skinnygirl.
What sievewill distill a dream?A thing of momentintimated,but confoundedby dictionary devils.Enticing in its grey distance,alluring in its apple wholeness,it follows like a moon.One wakesto the knives of morning,mourning the loss of the thing.Struck dumb,as it were.
Old Man. He come every day at twilight time. I hears the bony drum, cicada’s hum. He wear raggedy clothes, canvas cap, yellowy beard. And his work he does. Cranks that gear handle round and round. Powers up the tiny lights. Pinpoints in the pinwheel spiralled sky of night.
"Italy" it said to me as I pushed the earplug in. And dreamed about covidity, and things that might have been. Coffee mornings, browning air embolden fauna fair. Investigators in the yard come closer, on a dare.