I took a picture of bursting pussy willows and invisible bush hares that dust themselves with pollen to outfox allergic foxes. Earlier, I’d watched a squirrel’s shadow chasing along a tree shadow thrown across the lawn. Some wonders are not meant to be photographed.
A trembling green bird in my hand, dazed from a window-collision, dark eyes wide, beak wide as if to gulp enough sea wind to power her wings. Waiting. Warm. Legs thin as matchsticks and claws curled on my palm. The miracle of a tiny vireo surviving us.
A beguiling bricolage, a basket woven by hands large and small, calloused and soft. Interlacing the willow-weave are cast sparrow feathers and the star-shine of children’s whispers. A nest of eiders’ precious down, it offers sweet respite to the achy heart and weary eye.
Whose grief attends upon grave loss / Sears and splinters quotidian bulwarks / Disrupts the right-angled reality of a room / And plays satanic mantras backward. / How broken tears fall, prisms of healing / Glittery in a too bright illumination / Of love, relief, and shame.
Fog washes over the lake and seeps into the horizon. Stealthily, it smothers bushes and hums lullabies to fairies dozing with luxurious breaths inside curled leaves. The sensual mist drifts on, rising to cloak our home in mystery and steal from day the sunrise and birdsong.
Youth’s idyll on those summer beaches / Tsunamis of romance and expectations / Of eternity.
Poem for Leonard Cohen: Of all the dealers Lennie knew–poker, crack, and coke / He finally met the Mad Hatter / Sharer of darkened doorways / Invisible shadow of piss on scurvy paint / Who issued him an invitation to freedom for a price– / His weary soul or a sorrowful song of leaving.
Inhibiting brick dressed in climbing ivy hides a city nook. Lobed-left grape and purple wisteria entwine to form a canopy over a rustic bench where lunchtime lovers press close, wondering at this joy and every heartfelt kiss is tender as the first.
A susurration of ghost tires on wet roads / City light reflected in silvery moon pools / Big Ben now silent / As I wander into the past under umbrella-proof rain / To Piccadilly Circus and Eros defeated, / And along the sluggish Thames with its fairytale facades / Of dreamed history.
Inside a cradle moon woven of recycled butcher’s paper and stuck to glitter-spangled space with superglue lies a foundling infant of far-away time. / She waves unfocused arms and kicks her legs expectantly, awaiting the cow that jumps over to drop off her midnight feed.
My dogs dragged me down a street on my back / I’ve twice been yanked by my hair to the carpet / I’ve been sexually bullied, fleered at, and ostracized / At home, and here as a wearing foreigner with dubious habits. / The hell with it. / I’m still fine-tuned for dancing.