winter stars
what i dont have to see
to believe
street fair
the plaza fills
with cheap sunglasses
cloud bank
all my treasures
laid up in heaven
dusk till dawn
the length of
an apology
opening day
the crack of a poptop
with bases loaded
May Eve
song thrush to song thrush
the Bel fires of old
butterfly dust . . .
the question I never
dared to ask
just-fledged light
chips of wren song
from the log pile
summer’s end . . .
the willow leans closer
to the river’s song
mayfly in amber
the ink of my death poem
still wet