Saturday, July 20, 2013



Sun light strains
through unclean glass
a filter to spring light. 

My eyes throb to see
the blue sky hang
over a haze of April pollen. 

A spasm grips my left hamstring
as I read Thoreau 
and Montaign.
My freer self wanders

to the rain spattered portal
and faces west. 
I would run until my

breath seized on an inhale
stranded on the beating of my heart. 
I struggle against your words,

try not to hear
them scatter my thoughts,
those thin articulations

that lightly smother me. 
The agony I most covet
comes from running

into the storm.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Berries Season

Berries on the Vine

In April opportunity rained
on asphalt, stood in pools. 
It rained on our lawn
and in the hole we dug
to move the disparate Spartan. 

In April chances came
and by May they were gone,
dust gathered on the piano,
In the hollow tick of the cuckoo clock. 

Longer days reached up and out
toward the summer solstice,
but I looked back to the winter
equinox and snowy hibernation. 

In June, the longest day upon us,
we realized our garden’s
fullness, the fertility of horse
manure, the virility of rotted
table scraps.

By July we ate the opportunity
that germinated in April,
and as the dry sun warmed
our shoulders and tanned

our knees, we ate berries

from the vine.