I helped him shovel out Mrs. Cowell's
parking place. He did most of the work,
but he split the money fifty-fifty.
He's an outcast now;
no frontier he can reach.
But he's not crying, and we know
there is no virtue, only consequence
and the sometimes music
of a new shirt.
Woodstock
Bluejay Feather
Bluejay feather
in the grass.
Something was here
once,
A flash of color,
a harsh cry,
and it was gone.
The feather remains:
tough, precise,
useful
For Sylvester
On his 40th
Talking To Myself
Early dark blue, one jet trail
arching past Venus,
snow coming tomorrow.
My mother,
unable to move.
Hit it down the road, seven hours,
stand by her bed,
acknowledge the bond of blood,
the sensitivity
she could never handle,
that I have ridden to beauty
beyond all expectation.
Wilson Street
Low gray sky.
Cold. Still.
Christmas tree upside down,
tinsel on dirty snow.
A yellow balloon
bounces slowly
across Wilson Street.
A black cat
glides three steps up,
turns in a doorway.
Portland
On Looking At A Mediocre Painting
Thin paint. No passion.
We would agree, I know,
although we met only once--
some things are in the blood.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25