Red-Winged Blackbird 

Sunrise over Zeller Drive 

In Steckle Woods, the trilliums are blooming. 

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Moments About

I’m writing poems to the echoes.
Life was here, but caught the eight-fifteen
somewhere. Sat in the day coach listening
to the same sound that opened
the petals of a country. Only sadness remains,
guest unwilling to go home, full
of anecdotes about. And in the rooms
I remember, words are arranged like furniture.
Easy chair for contemplation, coffee table
a wake-me-up call. I’m writing lyrics
for the shadows so they can sing.
A choir standing on the rift between
imagination and the dishes.

Poem as Immigrant

The geomorphology sun creates—
tablecloth
spilled across morning.

Although stitch-worked into
our conversation,
fantasy seems as plain as
the phone bill,
bank statement, or that note left on
the counter
beside the spent dishes still to be resurrected
after last night's corpse,
along with our enervated mood.

(Snuffed candle/closed book/bar clothes in the closet' s furthest corner.)

I drift with dragons
through the ether of purple sun.
After breakfast,
my molar hurts again.
The rose has genuflected to the table—
a dance to come?
The garage should be swept,
our car washed.

Let me stand
on the first leaked strands of today,
as though I'm at the train station,
surveying schedules in
another language,
for destinations that mean nothing,
except a difference from what exists,
from the earth on which
my feet seek to gain a purchase.

Let me empty my knapsack of experience
for security,
watch it disappear
as mist at the foot of buildings,
watch it creep down alleys,
through unlocked doors,
listen to it laugh at jokes and situations
I don't understand—
let me imagine a grey coat,
black shoes, well-worn pants,
a certain gait and an acquired romance
with the mysteries a stranger sees.

Friday Night 1 

Friday Night 2 

Friday Night, 3 

Morning Walk 

Just After Sunrise