Just when the evening turns to night – There is a word the wise ones say It speaks itself when all the birds Have sung away the last of day

For a week, maybe more, I’ve had a cough that won’t leave punctuating my days with dragon’s fire. The pain performs ballets of lightning, blooming, reminding me I’ve not been careful with my seasons.

She of the long flowing hair cascading like the river 22 stories below telescopes far on the avenue where humans skitter along

The full moon Through my kitchen window Turns the kitchen floor to light, No any-so-shining silver world By day, however bright

When twilight finds you by the sea and memory tears collect renounce the tide that has taken me.

Can you love me laissez-faire when the path leads to and fro and not succumb to daily wear?

Here is the bed where I can’t sleep and there’s the desk where I can’t write, abandoned papers in a heap.

A cleverer student would remember Milton’s voice a line of iambs marching free, an ego perhaps from God’s own lips.

awake again without a reason why the ghostly fingers drag along my spine telling me that everything is fine that I don’t have to suffer; dry my eyes.

In the hills behind my house, bodies burn The vapors rise over the sakuras While I sit by my window with my dogs

If boots could talk the tales they’d tell of wearied limbs up random fell

How is it I will know them? shall it show in the white of their eye shining brighter than pure laid snow

I know we don’t share points of view you skirt ‘round me, I guard ‘round you

Pray to an ever-nigh somewhat, yet know thing With a fool’s knowledge spawned in unearthing voids

Shall I compare thee to this land, enshrined, And thus risk bleak and unintended blame When nature’s lovely gifts, by gods designed, Hide blemishes that bring the match to shame?

She loves you with a burning flame but spending passion quickly she jilts you just the same.

For what little it’s worth now, we might as well be a boatful of grasses beached on a highway: not the first time we’d have met each other in the wrong

The sign flickers, half-lit, as if undecided. Inside, a man replaces springs no one takes time to save.

The James Webb found the furthest galaxy, again. The polar ice caps are dripping at my door. I'm waiting for the war in my head to begin

April, here I drill. Turning the heavy clay-rich soil, I include hardware store compost bags. I encircle heirloom tomatoes, Cherokee Purple and Green Zebra, with the wire cage.