June 6

comments 2
poetry

the way a summer day
lingers, and the night, too

a golden thing won’t go–
some minutes are a life

of possibility,
the breeze shakes the shades

and sunbeams shift
on the floor like seagrass

underwater, ephemeral,
summer, how many ways

it could go, or stay, first
cool of evening, but still light

out, birdcall and voices
from afar, and summer fruit,

the lazy sweetness of it all,
each hour rising up

like super-heated air,
the mirage on blacktop,

contrails, first stars
and crescent moons before the sun

even sets, too full, too
full, what hour could contain this

May 21

comments 3
poetry

Late late morning
a ripple on the lake

a standing wave
or complicated wake

two lizards sunning
themselves

and not much else
to say, calm

and soft here, East
of the mountains

I watch descents:
parasails, quails

the crescent day moon
the onerous ray of sun

and spare a thought
for yours:

did your crampons bite?
did the pack give way? Alone

in the shade of static,
fixed hills, I wonder, and wait.

May 20

comments 2
poetry

more wilderness here
in a square foot

than home
already hotter

than predicted
these clouds

look like a child
drew them

and incessant songbirds
insisting it’s not

summer yet
that we are still

arriving
such a strange

place
this year is

given in to longing
at every margin

still snow in the passes
and this baslamroot spent

May 13

comments 3
poetry

Flower moon milk moon
strange weather

these days
which came first

the sun or all
this rain

the gingko come back
overnight it seems

or maybe I’ve
been away

wet footings
insubstantial sleep

.

flower moon milk moon
must exert some tide

some pull a dream
some days can seem

more real but still
recedes

electric green
leaves convulsing

in the wind
thunder predicted

and waiting as giving

.

milk moon flower moon
what sort of stupid

names the moon is a cold
dead rock held fixed

in place in space
by solveable equations

this spring succor
contrived I suppose

and the white sand line
at low tide nothing like

exposed bone or tendon
manufactured exquisiteness

and waiting as taking

.

flower moon milk moon
lost on a drive back

a change of direction
and it fell off the horizon

May 1

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poetry

At the laundermat
police up the street

corraled bikes
like spilt jacks

across Pike street
mostly quiet for now

the insustrial
-sized drier

cranks on and off
gas-powered

round-doored
highest capacity.

All day helicopters
in droning flight

half fly, half
vulture

it keeps coming
back to mouths

to feed, inches
given and miles

of streets,
some feet,

some footnotes, people
don’t realize, you know, if

you think about it,
why?

a quote,
lamentably,

and a false entreaty.
Papered windows

just in case.
We put the quarter

in the slot, and
another, and another.

In every thing, a hunger.
The dryer kicks

on again, the mass
of sheets comes undone,

and in this tree
a robin sings

in a spray of
new buds and leaves

and in that other
world it’s spring

April 25

comments 3
poetry

and then a silence
becomes unspeakable

spring rain gentle
except for when it is not

complacency split up
by unusual intermissions

damp green and watery
themes the creek up

the lake spilling
its bounds each leaf

recoiling back
to how it was

or wasn’t
can this transition

be considered
status quo

how a season
always goes

transience
in object definitions

always a before
even these mountains

and the expectation
of after

breaths collect
in cool damp air

seen for a moment
a brief thought, that weight–

April 2

comment 1
poetry

Spring snow, heavy
from the sun, as one

season slides into
another, jubilant,

inexorable, put on
a happy face and wonder

where has it gone?
No more sloping,

no more gentleness,
whatever I thought

there was, was wrong
and the only way out

is through. Truisms
and robber jays,

ice in the shade.
A refusal

March 15

comment 1
poetry

Afternoon as threshold,
precipice. Mid-week,

mid-month, equipoise
and the cry of a woodpecker.

They say the snow’s
all done, and now

that it’s light
later we hacked

back the blueberries
that won’t produce,

severely,
taking them down

to the ground,
provoking life

from dormancy,
or: hoping.

An hour later, still,
shears in hand

going at spouts
and suckers

in the bay laurel,
getting dark out,

and cold, still,
to bring order!

An evening act,
as suburb lights

like unblinking eyes
go on one after another

March 11

comments 2
poetry

oh encapsulated day
too small and every

meter metered
out bland

formalities
as measures

sun in a picture
but in this

distant window
rain the thought

again that
distance is not

mere physics
or even physical

enough corporal
work will teach

you that
quick

February 26

comment 1
poetry

late morning, no snow
it may have rained but

is not raining presently
a vacuum cleaner running

somewhere, removing
the evidence, making

it possible to forget.
Somewhere near here

the tide turns away
a gradual recession

you have to stay
and watch to see

but it’s blocks
and blocks away

and not really ocean,
more constrained bay

and I recuse myself
from all sorts subtlety

this morning, bare streets
and indifferent traffic,

turn over in bed
and also turn away