I’m smoking, The burning trail choking Deep lungs groping For the nicotine fix It poisons my lips And keeps callers at a distance. My most faithful lover Your smell stays on my lips Long after our last kiss No matter how hard I try keep telling you goodbye You keep coming back And I keep […]
I am collecting pieces of myself Scattered over years, miles, and memories. Shards of self abandoned and forgotten In the name of growing up. I am collecting pieces of myself. Patching together the things once beloved and left to rust On the shelf of my youth. I am collecting pieces of myself; Calling home parts
His eyes are jelly holes The sheep his wool is fire Toppling up the slope Toward the wire. No Says the sheep’s master. He can only follow her. The sheep goes faster. In the wire they all rolled, Held, holding, all defiled. The poor girl, she foaled. My cradle. Oh my child.
Stray Fire – Vietnam, 1968 Read More »
(In memory of Michael Levine) His red beard copper in the sun, he battled patiently in the black field against the sumac, sassafras, Canadian thistle. For years his forehead burned as he looked toward the oaks’ cool shade and gouged sweat from his eyes and bent again to address his enemies. The fine needles of
The rearview mirror rose above a rabbit smashed flat. In the West, we break to our measure. A word in Viet-Nam for river is song. The rabbit is song. In Wyoming the road goes on, sand and sides. The road is the end. The road goes under me and I go on. This is my
Nature is a temple whose living colonnades Breathe forth a mystic speech in fitful sighs; Man wanders among the symbols in those glades Where all things watch him with familiar eyes. Like dwindling echoes gathered far away Into a deep and thronging unison Huge as the night or as the light of day, All scents