Lightning, like the earth is pulling
Lightning, like the earth is pulling threads from the moon,
Unseen above the clouds. The earth’s desire is so strong
That fish wriggle from the tree by my driveway, and roll
On the sidewalk waiting for rain. The neighbor says they are fallen
Flowers from the rose of sharon, but they more resemble
Shrink-dried koi, ready to plump up as the moon draws
The water inland. Like wishes waiting for the right moment
They will blossom only after their fall and swim down the street
Where everyone can see, unattached to what they grew from,
Swallowing bread dropping through the air from the hands of strangers.
Dandelion Patch by the Elementary School, Early May, 7:50 a.m.
They pluck them from the ground and smash
Them soundlessly on another’s head or back
What floats off their violence like a helicopter’s
Skeleton? Lighter than an elementary school
Morning. Directionless as a flying fifth grader.
Wish wands are what they call them. Why would you break
A wish on a boy’s stubborn neck as he tries to twist
Away? On the shoulder of the girl who’s too fast
For you to catch? They don’t wait for the fractured
Moon to pop free of its stem. When the field grows
Quiet I look up at the great yellow flower. If I wait
Long enough it will turn white and fragile against
The dark. I’ll meet you at the base of its hollow
Column, or wait till the wind dismisses me.
January 1, 9:24 PM (Wolf Moon) [#fullmoonsocial]
In the wolf’s eye is the guile of the sun:
I turned my back on the sinking day
To find it’s still staring at me, placid
spurned communion wafer
Always full song
The moon passes through the branches
separating the coarser from finer particles
flows back to unity
Smaller but closer on the curve of your
Eye, always full no matter how much
Of what you show is in the dark
Reading sheet music
The guitar arpeggios are the roofs of nearly identical houses
In a small village. The streets are covered in snow, no one
Goes in or out. But the temperature even at night has turned mild,
No smoke rises from the roofs, which are spotted with moonlight.
In the morning a dog runs through the alleys, pausing here and there
To check out something new. Snow slides off a roof in the morning sun.
Conversations (XII) — to pictures I’ve not taken
Your face. The moon through the branches of days.
Morning sprouts from the top of the tree
And brings light down to earth.
The moon’s not looking
out a window in
the house next door
to the west of bed.
Rising I talk the evening
down from its sorrows:
What begins as one thing
passes into another, I say,
sundown to dusk to night
for instance, night to
faintest light to dawn
to day. Then night says
in a voice so dark I can
not read its words
What begins as love
passes into love
and from the house next door
to the east of my steps
the moon rises
as from its black chimney