the in-between land

the in-between land
all hazy from smoke
of regret and lost chances
forested in trees of longing
whose shadows grow out
in ever widening circles
each breeze reeks of
shit that grows
in piles outside the rancid
cottages of thought
where miserable inhabitants
faces cold and angry
shuffle to and from the door
and watch for rain.

Wonderful Eye

can’t be sure of any step
I’m on ice, rocks of ice
with pockets of snow
where my slender ankle goes
and hand in hand you find me
lying there
camera pointed off in the air
to commemorate
for posterity
the sanguine tree,
the cross, the sky -
my weary, wonderful eye -
as big jets fly by
and hand in hand you enjoy
the sight
hearts and minds take flight

Each Estuary a River

I live my life in syllables *(come ran flit drink believe)
each day as long as a year
a week no shorter than a month - February has March beat -
each syllable a measured stick of time
that builds my life into a heap, a pile, a record.
Soon brackets and (parenthesis) holding all
the other words in check
to keep them from (bleeding out) into
the open, will break down
and syllable upon syllable will
come flooding in. And I have no mop to stop it.

A pencil is a godess made of wood and lead,
speaking life into the page
and understanding rage in a cage (gauge)
and I am a dream maker with a funny tie
who bends the bars to let her through.
(worship footstool)* And syllable -
my sanctuary, my metronome -
calls me home each night
and in my unlit dreams
forgives my silent.

In which the Dog Returns to its Vomit

Interesting moment this
where I sit and reminisce
holding seashells in my hand,
a folded note, a jar of sand,
felt snowflakes
that fell last winter
in my room.
The bubble light reminds me
that the worst is now behind me
and the Christmas lights sag overhead
till June.