Pond Tree

Many shadows of leaves
fall on the goldfish
in our weird pond

On their flightier school
fall shadows of yellow
leaves flighty in wind

Neurotic school of leaves
shaped like the fish
lanceolate leaves

These fish are spooked
by the sense of shadows
on their orange backs

On their sides, a weird
dappling of themselves
over themselves

They can never know
but seem to sense
how nature ghosts to selves

 

Advertisements

string eleven (solitude)

the trees

destroyed
in winter

*

every tree
is a writer

don’t flatter yourself

*

the neighborhood trees
stand together
and apart

*

the trees:
a writing community
strife       wind

*

sometimes branches grow
to touch          please
don’t strangle me

*

more often, though,
it’s good ole surreptitious
root love

 

Green with Wanting

Here is a child      wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once      She is
not sick

She is not fever-rich

She juts out into the world    so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature

She can’t buy all the poetry books

She has a different kind of money

She is a strider          Admire her

So she goes with all the trees     All hold their arms
high        open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods

She but      no longer a girl

She walks between them     All the insane openness
of the arms                         A cold bitter

A martini of cold
With an olive of colder

It is a madness of the trees

God, the earth is a mattress

and nothing more

 

 

 

Turned on Down Street

Things that turn cold.
To help you. On your way.
I am in the back half of the forest.
Where the radios are still playing.
I hadn’t known. The forest is facade.
Stagecraft. The trees props. The birds
do not know they are script.
Extras. Background artists.
The radios high in the trees. Nailed there.
The fruit is heavy with the hands that hold it.

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.