Briefly light lays lace
across the crepe myrtle’s leaves,
then whisks it away again,
before this sentence ends.
(August 18, 2020)
Briefly light lays lace
across the crepe myrtle’s leaves,
then whisks it away again,
before this sentence ends.
(August 18, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (78)
after the worst of summer’s heat
we’d sit in the grass
beneath the pecan and cottonwoods
away from the radiant streets and sidewalks
the adults spoke of friends
far away or long dead
they’d laugh and tell stories
which we were not a part of yet
we ran wild through the night
afraid of nothing
(July 18, 2020)
from a work in progress: “Process, Not a Journey” (67)
our earth wobbles its way
about the sun like a drunk
unsure of her footing
moves again
toward the bar
*
day by day minute by minute
plods toward darkness
for the next six months
each day grows darker
by one minute
*
not quite disturbing
the dullard doves
who coo complacently
on the fence
–
cardinals and jays
fussing constantly
slip after each other
between tree branches
–
I watch and listen
to this dance
for hours
and can do nothing
*
as it was in the beginning
world without end
(June 23, 2020)
Chicago, Illinois– Halsted Street
a half-finished Manhattan
with the 9 Muses, a bar:
Metallica plays softly
from the discrete loud speakers
a dandelion puff drifts past
out into the thick traffic
(July 8, 2018)
mostly now, I stay at home
rarely driving farther than work
or to a nearby market
for the night’s dinner
tomorrow, I travel alone
two thousand miles from home
to meet with other teachers
with other poets to talk
about poetry and its teaching
in an age of blatant lies
(July 8, 2018)