"Everything leans,"
A friend said,
The Maple arcs
Over the bluff-edge
Which means one day
Roots up, carcass.

Found an opossum, gray
& white fur, bones
Still raw
Bite marks, ripped stuff
Cracked jaw, gut-cavity
Tail pointing South
At nothing.

A Bitter Wind

November claims individual gold
Leaves falling from the skinny birch
Lifts gray hairs on my skull
Lifts whitecaps from the lake
Each follows and is followed by another
I sit, chant a mantra
Heard from an old Buddha
Who said twelve million repetitions
Bring it closer to the heart

The Lightening

On the last morning of October
Between the scalloped water
And the slab of gray
The low angled sun slices through'
And flashes the the lone gull
I might say silver or white
But you know the color
Everything surprises, the way
They shift when you look at them
On the morning of Samhain
They shimmer and lift-up
Your heart, like that red leaf
Wet in your tremmoring hand
Raising the fallen

The Brown Wood

                           -- For Diane Di Prima
Rain falls
Through turned leaves
Something green
Gone gold
In the mist
At the end of October

Isn't it strange
As the day darkens
How the unexpected
Sound of droplets
The sense of loss

For the brown leaves
For cupped words

Public Library

The dead are a library
In which you are told
"Unfold pages"
"Unbend the ravaged corners,"
Placeholders of unwrapped
Bodies, untombed.

We erase carbon marks
As if their lives
Were once tracings,
Maps written on the back
Of mummies until exposed,
Becomming the singular dream
Of the Clairvoyant Brotherhood.


October stillness, pitch at three in the morning but you’re restless. Kettle on, you bundle yourself in flannel and boots before making tea in the red clay mug, before stepping out under the vast black-moss dome of the world. Star-fields sing at this time of year in a way which takes an accustomed mind not to reject the voices out of hand as tinnitus or the hallucinogenic effect of tea. Deneb, stolen from the tail of the swan Cygnus cries like a fox , quivering your vertibra and the small bones of your hands; the cry invokes harmonics within tea within clay. A slight breeze rustles the leaves of the closest maple as the first meteorite flashes the atmosphere.


Echoes from the rod and gun club make me look up from the white pages that blow in the wind as I loose them. Fingers are the key to holding the weight. Each finger squeezes steel on the other side of the woods on the other side of the apple farm which is where each butt wears cammo, each foot in work boots. The reverberations of the phonocamptics don’t seem to disturb the vultures on the roof of the deserted house or the gulls whose white underwings capture the virgin nature of the pages before the text and the fingerprints.