awake with the birds
I distill the who I am
from the edge of light


no longer
seeing fog as it is
becoming fog

so unexpected
the organophosphate
and the mute bird

fogbound . . .
the forgetfulness
of a river

with a spring
all that a tree can
no longer contain

For Hemi

forty days . . .
bead by bead

park bench --
yesterday's warmth
old news

melt down —
the trickling half-life
of spent rods

pond shadows —
tadpoles dress within
old words new

dew fall . . .
entering her shadow
by moonlight

mountain mist
the seamlessness
of being

paschal moon —
light enters the void
of a tomb

passing over . . .
the livid otherness
of autumn clouds

the one
who came before —
harvest moon

moon-starved night —
day's diminuendo
note by note

Maundy Thursday —
the long day's journey
into night

the still days —
summer dies once more
to itself

paschal moon —
blood washes over
our feet

this autumn
loneliness colours
a hundred leaves

aging eyes . . .
endless the vision
at dewfall