Knowing nothing is all you ever know.
Like seeing the fallen cedar limb that has come
down while you were taking the temperature of tomorrow
with a question.

On a whim, that reckless cousin of fate,
you drive out again to that pond where yet again
airy thoughts collect into a solid mass.

Take aim against the water’s pale skin,
or at least imagine how a measured throw
might glance against the grain and skim
the order of things.

As if stories were other than a claim against chaos,
the invention of ripples from clean silence.


Swallowed with a gulp, the end of which
is still middle of somewhere,
going ebb over hands
with the silhouette of days.

Yeah, but it’s all gauze shadow-shirts
singing at the wind
trampling the fir
stirring up names for cravings.

Rushing one course again, what a mess
when it happens year-sure like this,
shooing the cat, a scatting tide
goes while winter, never.

A Passing Shower (June/July)

Vacant streets
cut grass
empty mornings
we fret.

Watches spin
time runs
hours flee
we stress.

Right shoes but
wrong socks
forgotten phone
we groan.

Somewhere mayhem bombs
and people flee their
panicked lives while
we bemoan

in column inches with
sordid pity, chattered fragments,
sixty-second updates
we sigh.

Interrupt our misery with
gossiped snapshots of
death and despair
we hear, we want to

in regular intervals
of foreign nowheres
made whole by estimates that
we can pity.