From Beautiful Locks

For seven miles we hoofed it

Chasing after a couple of good ideas
The waters stopped searching
For the ocean and puddled
I poured myself a mule
A wounded mule wiped
From beautiful locks.

What I poured myself
For seven miles 
Sugary in the streets
Charm on a dog

And a couple of good ideas
The eyes aren’t prettier
The waters stopped 
Home at the snake bite
Remember the look
Of a sandwich
Grabbed at the hardware 
Amber waves a mantra
Invisible for fifteen years
Clear as the bottom of a lake
Where you and I were 

Charged with swimming.

Like the Buddhist

Like the Buddhist

I do not believe 

in the afterlife

but on Sundays 

When the bells ring

 in the lonely town

 of Leverett

And there are

Those I know 

Burried nearby

I stop to hear

Not the dirge

of the dead

Though their names

Be in it

But rather

I would like to think

Our secret pond

That one time 

You and I went

A car ride

For Chinese food

Or our beautiful walk

For coffee 

The back and forth

Of me rocking you

And listening to

the shorter softer

Pearls of sound of breath.

 

Dating the Days

Tell the shampoo girls 

That Sundays are best

For pumpkins

And the horse face boy 

Tuesday’s for thought

Monday’s monarch

Rests his mave 

On noons moons

What days are left in

Leftovers Wednesday 

Wire and Thursday’s

Mote.  Fridays

Freelancing and 

Saturday’s note.

Speaking

 How one returns from heaven or honey 

It’s pains how sticky 

the farmer, driving his empty 

truck through the beautiful 

maples of spring, never gets to the telling 

of it. Especially as the sage sways

He never gets to the telling of it

Even the way you look up at me

Late in the evening right before sleep

With your eyes that I cannot read

In the gray blue essay of yours

knowing I do not stand a chance

In your ache

We cannot keep silent

We cannot keep silent.

Forgetting Notes

I remember what happened 

in elementary school

even if you don't

Fiddles arrange like blood clots

The flutes futility stands

You hear, you always hear 

this is not quite enough

together we promise fullness

We promise the conductor 

Will play the drums

As the drummer watches

As the whole orchestra 

Carries on

We promise we will

Give you a sign

Even when we are dead

So as to make your life

A little less like

The dark void

Moving closer to oblivion 

But that is a hefty ask

Don’t you think

The day before the snow

Is sunny and the sun

Comes into the room 

And warms the cat

Where she is lying

It sits on the carpet 

In warm and bright 

Spots of the day

Here is the only promise 

The rest needs to be invented 

Poem constantly losing letters

There is so much to cover 

Like thistles over the inlet

One moment a fire rendezvous 

The next darkness in darkness 

In the heart of a tsunami 

A missing person is lonely 

In the heart of a hurricane 

The missing people

Of Tennessee cling to an ash

In the eye of a tornado

It is calm like a world 

Of missing people

Like strangers

Washing away the letters 

Of their names

I am sorry for this being weedy

And for the prickers 

Opening the side of your calf

Will nothing else suffice 

For this panorama

Or should we head 

Back to the search party

And the evening

Escaping into a small

And beautiful sea

The pink strokes on clouds

Beneath the descending day

The flurries of the whole story

Covering and dampening 

Rolls of oceanic upholstery.

The Current Stare of Affairs

It was a sound 

way off on the green lawn

A bank of birds

A signature somewhere

Like any line

Might be my last

I walked by the panzer 

A base of sunlight 

Blinded the swaying 

Willows in all directions 

I was counting 

But then lost count

I became hungry 

Like a ghost 

Must feel hunger 

I was alone 

And suddenly 

Like a boat knocking 

Against its moorings 

I was knocking 

And knocking and knocking.