Night Snow

It is laid
and it falls.
It is here
and there
and every page
of the night
forgets its number.
It is though
and it is past
and it is coming
as the cyclops
eye of a train
delayed a mere
few centuries.
You know
the whistle.
It lays down
a tablecloth
over the lake.
It is in the lamps
of the streetlights
and the dark places
between houses
where they
cannot touch
but only grow bars
and other places
where people
become mushrooms,
can only
look and look
at the brightness
between
all things
dead and busy
in the darkness,
through no window.

Halfway Through a Keyhole

The smallness of a hand
enter you. Should be a lock
on the dawn. The rabbit bent
under the moon like a knuckle
in your mind. Good morning,
three a.m.  Frost on leaves,
who knew you could embroider
diamonds?  Rare headlights
seen on the small mountain
across, no different than
airport lights, but going
down, down:
a late drinker
or early worker.
Dark imagination
will have to split
the difference.

Poem for October Shootings

Another autumn comes
to get the trees stoned,
to squeeze your hand
with thin and late light
a little on this street
that’s shaded by all these
ancient sycamores. You love
the scraggy sounds
those giant leaves
make when, dried-out,
they fall, and run like rats
down the street when wind
comes around that corner
that’s actually a dive bar.
The soul spittoon’s only windows
are narrow glass cinder blocks,
castle slits, so you’re spared
from seeing the dead/dying
who sit in there and watch
a small television
in the moist underworld,
who sometimes shoot each other
dead-for-real just outside the door
of this cave establishment,
because someone else just said
what they were already
thinking about themselves
in a cruelly honest way.

Her Husband, Who Lives in Bars

A spaniel runs through a field
of wildflowers, purple, white lace and goldenrod,
and it is nobody’s dog
and doesn’t even know it is Tuesday
or that it is now called “missing,”
though it intends to return
to the arms of the one it loves,
and plant a sloppy kiss
on an angry mouth,

the dog solution to everything.