Small Hour

I think about you in the small hour,
you are sprinkled in the pinstriped
electricity of the evening,
thin, wavered by the dark.
Your head is an Iris
blossoming out of a collar,
trembling, uneven:
brick wall graffiti
or poetry in charcoal.

I am diving and flown;
a Kingfisher lost in a wintry park.

The starlight on my cheeks.
is only a galaxy’s past-life
catching my upturned face,
significant, weak;
the fly inside a bottle,
necks of shadow cast
beneath a cedar.

I try to imagine
you looking back at me
under skinny crescents
of stingy moons
and flutter there like cash
from a cloud’s hip pocket.


Topsy Turvy Sonnet

damn the broken speckled eggs of sorrow
lambs and sheep are counted for tomorrow
harm unfolds and every corners’ ornery
trapped in tattered rags of second stories
charmed until the pansies drooped neglected
snapped balloons deflated dreams deflected
skeins of winter sunlight wheezed and squandered
promises that shattered pieced and pondered
trains of thought to marriage quite contrary
Thomases of doubt reactionary
coroners and caskets flying solo
kettle drums that wanted to be oboes
corridors of numbered doors and angles
settled in complacency’s soft strangle

Rethinking Winter

Framed in the scant scramble of flake,
I absorb the whimsy of snow;
the brief life of a pattern
exhausting the jubilant.
Frozen butterflies break
from the clouds
to ride on my shoulders.
The clean shards of silence brace
a Call Ducks’ snide cackle.
As the whirr of low geese
snub this traitorous season,
White Pine stand up
and pierce the flog.

I split snowing partitions
to meet all these objects
stripped in bleached definition.
A fresh traveler, I step
from recognized hovel
to explore a new planet
in winter dimension.

Rice paper worlds quiver
a chrysalis bubbles.
Ice webs blur the folds
of the fluttering soils,
that dream as I do,
hibernal and hidden.

An unexplained sun
skates the snow,
exposing flat crystal.
An equinox fated
gasps out,
spilling spectra;
the solstice sighs
in brief ecstasy.

Celestial Electra
burns her zenith
in effigy.

Boxed in the Ring Sonnet

The knockout was delivered Christmas day;
a brawl was done that passed just like a dream.
Your final bout had ended up this way:
against the ropes and losing all your steam.
Though facing your opponent toe to toe,
the sucker-punch already had been thrown.
You found yourself down fallen, like the snow;
a ten-count wouldn’t stop or be postponed.
Your gloves came off when fighting this last round.
The winter cancer boxed you in the ring
and grew so fast, despite the frozen ground.
Those pounds you lost left featherweight to swing.
Some boxers are considered tough and brave,
but you swung lionhearted at a grave.