this word
then another
bird song
and we make words
about it
sweaty days
the meat in the sandwich
my daily bread
leaf rattle
moments later
golden arches
the blood brotherhood
of childhood streams
eye contact
made in passing
words also seek
across the gulf
a connection of eyes
. . . alone
these words
a peninsula
of almosts
the poem
still not written
goes like this . . .
at dawn
my mind patrols
my borders

all of me becomes morning fog

oversteps the smear
of a dream
a birthcry
mapping the disposition
of stars
animal farm . . .
a fat sow gorges
on her runts
hey buddy!
I am too old
for cannon fodder

step by step
my shadow anchors me
to the earth


winter rain—
familiar spirits
haunt my words