Morning Walk


An uncontrolled Virginia creeper
leaves off her dormancy.
A cheap couch, missing a cushion,
spreads out and sponges up the dew.
The backyard GMC with a fist-sized hole
busted through the windshield;
running boards rusting.
It’s all fresh in the east slanted sun,
baked in the heartbreak
of next-door neighbors and Saturday morning.
A tired nurse ends her night shift,
two strangers sharing nothing
but their bodies,
separate before the traffic picks up.
Some blockaded streets
cordoned off for a marathon,
remind those of us awake,
how far we have to go
before its all over.



Her long, straight hair
in varied lengths,
is shinier than her eyes;
petrified mahogany.
It is a pendant pouring
from a root beer
a shawl on her shoulders,
racing with gravity.

Because of his height,
a pronounced limp
enabled his view
to seesaw and periscope
above the crowd;
to submarine through a sea
of underwater swimmers
and breaking crowns.



Transitions are blowing
through the dashboard vent,
I can smell the cab just passing
down to the cigarette
smoked vinyl upholstery.
I come upon a wreck;
cars have spun
on the roulette off-ramp,
no one is hurt,
but there is a woman
in blue hospital scrubs.
She may have emerged
from one of the bent vehicles.
On a freeway (where no humans
usually stand), gathered
dazed participants,
having exited their cars;
no one is using their phone.
There is a palpable
atmosphere of denial,
a disbelief
that they won’t arrive
to their destinations
on time.
Your face comes to mind.


In the dark, the church was a clown
with a dunce cap tower,
two sleepy, lavender windows
and a bricked mouth,
whose illuminated pink lips
frowned into an archway.

It stood kitty-corner
from a somber cemetery,
preferring its own best company.
Gravestones yellowed in the low lamps;
the remaining teeth of an old soldier,
smiling in a grass face
right through the jagged-leafed chestnuts
at the third watch losing interest.

I knew you were in there
somewhere under the plot-fringe,
where I buried you,
before I excelled at never
looking back,
so was the tree I climbed
over those same markers
years before,
dragging a banjo with me
clawhammering to the shadows
of things to come.

Ten Mile Night

Standing in the piano-belly night,
stars with padded mallets
struck me with a resonate frequency,
echoed in their lucid gong.
Selenite tears fell across
space on a serpentine curve,
unrestrained in heaven’s
vacant arc; a beach,
melodic with numbers
twisted into notes
released from
their measured cages.
The uneven hearts
of petrified dunes,
half buried on the far hill
gaped open and caved,
the desert bled out
in a psalm.