Poem

The word died, tired and sad

like an old calendar. How good the pin-pricked

organ, and the wound that bleeds forever,

                   filling the sea.

 

How good all the offers that expired,

and the days that passed by quickly, some of them

           in October,

when late in the evening no one sees you

coming home from work.

 

                              How good the wanting

to care for, how good the futile,

                                    the faded appointments, and

all of these things 

          that can never absorb all care.

Poem

 The word "compassion", 

                                          by itself, even

feel the rounded body

the furry head

Poem

The rainy spring

blew through my heart,

leaving no trace.

Poem

From bedsheet palaces where we pray in pairs

to populate the town with shopkeepers and shoplifters,

policemen and policed men, conducting their affairs

in streets of space, lesser emanations of Sunday,

the sabbath-house, a wedding-cake

to glorify the breeding animal

and his many kindnesses

Poem

How sweet to feel
       the strong wind, 
                              blowing.

Knowing,
                his wild hand

          will never move
     
the solid earth.


How sweet to hear
   the rain's
               
                             short music.

Poem

A moon of August
     hangs, a rusty blade on the wall
          of a barn
     hangs low and rosy in the black, 
                                                         perfumed

by clinging honeysuckle sprayed
     from ornate bottle,
                                   by antique mirrors,
     from faded lady's dressing table

city of lipsticks and powders

Bear

I recently attracted a small brown bear as a companion. I was somewhat afraid of him at first, but now I'm quite comfortable sitting with him in the grass as the sun goes down. I smile when he bounds from the lower lawn, leaping a full ten feet to land next to me.