the seeming flashes of lightning

earnest pealing
they were
jet lights on ascent
entering clouds
blinded passengers breaking
through to look down onto nothing seas
wings slowly icing
and we left standing
in this world below
mirrored hall of soft and eerie
somehow still cheery with velvet chill.
i will grasp your wing hand
pull you up laughing
from snow angel crash-landing
cold melting down your coatneck.
i’ll take you child anyday
crash of grace in the backward places
barns we forgot were there
left standing and
how hay was made sweet for this
and rough men by angel tones touched
hope falls simple as an evening snow
and wait
wait before you go.


the snow in minor key
drones against the dark
jet hum and shovel scrape
and rest a silent
silent while.
the drive home
the sudden flock of crows
swirls up black against shocks of snow
the closeness of the cars
intensity of faces
pored upon the road
ah this,
this beauty is
a slippery thing.
across the half-cleared sidewalk
sits snow barrow
my boy called with glee a fort
couldn’t keep quiet long enough to wield his
miniature shovel
all chattery and prancing
two hours later and
I feel faded to ghost
the soul seems so easily
bled on blotter drifts
that boy though
from the snowy hole
this is
the best time of the year!
ruddy world
how can it be so delicate and cold
drawing down peace
in this let go
and emptiness
let go let
goodwill only
by high piles
slows you, heaping
earth’s eyelids closed
heaven her watch keeping.

duck replies

grace my waddle won’t wear
your daubs sloughed off broad back-thacking
keep your own flair
for higher expression of self-aware.
the flit of fish in brackish grit
the dangers of the grassen wights
how suddenly gut sends you south:
down feather and grace tuck-under
groom without a moment’s waste.

whiskey before breakfast

an irish tune

is a one-way street
is the swirl of stream over stone
is a step too fast for the feet
is the weaving
of fingers reaching
from where we are
the scratch and scrabble
to where we would be
rushing revel
so dance to me my bonnie lass
start with a stomp
end with a laugh

Home for the Holidays

Home for the holidays.

Aphorism, fancy.

syllables barbells of air

fall failing
flailing sycophants
in trumpet tones of elephants
nose high I at times
by simple truths am tusked
and turn to lie.

handful of tried


handful of tried
and wish is in the eyes
the eyes with would grow wide
open road
stowed with drive
go–livewire you
wheel wind-steered
your hands around my eyes
your chill climbing my spine
if could through windows goes,
hair and fingerfulls of try
eyes with would grow
leaky-wished and wide
this could go
on forever in this way

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