Every Hour

The fading light of tired days

shadows across the bar

the weight of its settle

lightened by the wait for

someone else who finds

life in random words

put together.

The calendar tells us when

to turn the clock back

an extra hour of sleep comes

and frost returns in light that

sets off a mindless pattern

forgotten by the solstice’s

absence of day time.

The quiet of leaf-less trees

tornado through my ear

listening for the soft tread

of a welcomed footstep

that has not fallen in line

with standard time

nor me.

Where I found life in dusk’s

half-light before

I find that human nature

does not follow Time’s

ability to return to the same

point every year, every day,

every hour.

Leave

A lonely leaf lies

left behind by a shoe

that has tramped it

in across the threshold.

I peek through glass

holding my breath

hopeful to capture the

ground covered gold.

All of the life that

summer trees exhibit

crash so carelessly down

into textured puddles

that crunch underfoot

to end up alone on

the step to my door.

If only it would have

held on for a day more

or even a week so

that I could take time

to absorb its transition.

But it is done. Though

trees bound back to

live after the fall,

I imagine that this,

between us, is left for

the broom and bin.

personne

breeze bathes

sounds caress

first lines come

disappear

dust settles

after heart

hangs sign

do not disturb

words bury

six, seven,

twenty deep

corpse pile

impermeable

silent clay

quick sand

expression

I am no one

Ukrainian Man Dead

The block’s sentinel

molded to a plastic chair

affixed to a slab balcony

knowing nothing, seeing all,

like the Queen’s Life Guard,

he didn't ruffle or speak.

Blue and gold

did not adorn his post,

but his tongue was thick.

Through the blister and ice

of Midwestern seasons,

his surface smoothed.

The ambulance came late,

his body returned to earth,

his soul to Carpathia.

Now she sits

molded to a plastic chair

in this new Ukraine.

BirdSong

Light flirts with the sky

lowering itself into night

bird songs play through

a shade open to cool air

suspended, time is free

much of it still to spend

but the hour on the clock

betrays, set to early rise

tempted to stay conscious  

birds find summer nests

the rhythm of last warbles

lullaby to send me off.

Thick

thick from early sunrise to late sunset

the long day is simply summer’s start

slipped in a white lawn night gown

I lie on the divan deep in delicious want

the cotton swirls around expanse of hip

rounded breasts peek out of pintucking

and lace that crowns each delicately

splattered freckle that has kissed sun

while I wriggle and writhe in absence

of a friendly hand that could release

the long days of neglect built over time

and a heart that is trapped in a cage

little hopes project his image in fantasy

for any inattention paid in shared time

he tinkers and smiths words to disguise

his true heart’s intent for fear of exposure

his energy gnaws at a connection rat-like

careless of the voltage it unleashes

I am gullible and do not see the scene for

I trust what has been told to me before

too deep in the intensity of my own need

I am thick to the pain surreptitiously revealed

I examine the read with the guidance of tags

tricked by his obvious slight of hand metaphor

Evensong

the shade rises

in the evening letting in afternoon’s easiest light filtering rays sepia toned know what the day has been the sun is not ready to set entirely it rests on the sill comfortably listening to evensong tertia, sexta, nona the hours in June flirting with dusk sight unfailing lines run through battles won and lost time fades slowly the distant drop supported by years still to come in evening everlast

Fingerling

Wicker baskets

full of fancy spuds

on busy weekends

at farmers’ markets

tempt tasters.

Russian banana:

firm textured;

Purple Peruvian:

mealy fleshed;

Red thumbed:

pretty plate.

Roast’d, saute’d, boil’d,

butter’d, salt’d, pepper’d;

maybe a little virgin

olive oil and fresh garlic.

Pomme de terre-

apple of the earth,

seeing it on display,

imagining you in life,

I pick the one I want

a la dente.

Mother's Spring

On a rainy morning

she blinks slowly-

tears collecting in the corner

of her eye spilling out

over the slick asphalt

my tires roll across.

In daylight colored gray,

her soft green leaves

fluff in the wind

that will tear down

fleshy red tulip petals

previewed last week.

The rain will go away

but not before the

lay of the land is

surveyed, dug up,

and entrance’d by

the mighty gale force

that she often wields

with a strong steady,

sometimes sleepy yawn.

Out to Sea

A wave hits

from behind

and pulls me

into the surf.

Salt tears sweep

my cheeks-

my hands

cover my eyes,

pull them

across my face

like a dead sea mask.

I want to tell him

that I love him,

but the undertow

takes him out.

The Mantle Clock

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it insists on living faster than me tic toc tic toc’ing.

Here in stuck, I wonder what happens in the time

warp that sits between me and the walnut wood.

If I had twenty minutes,

I’d sort through the mail,

or wash the kitchen floor,

or put away the laundry.

Instead, papers aren't graded,

dishes aren't in the way,

books are happy alone,

and the couch is lonely.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it is tic toc tic toc’ing faster than I imagined when

it came from the Netherlands where it lived before,

maybe it’s the time change that has it off-kilter.

But I’m soothed by the

knock of pendulum, and

the click that indicates

that chords will be struck.

Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,

the sound has moved in,

settled amongst my things,

waiting for me to catch up.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,

it has left me in the dust that covers the floor,

its solemness the requiem for the minutes I lost 

since the day five ago that I last wound it up.

Thread

I stuck my hand

in his jacketed armpit:

shirted, t-shirted, still-

I was in.

Desire twines

every thought,

tender tendrils,

circling climb.

His pit was warm,

somewhat surprising,

his response to

physical such that

would suggest cool.

What was I doing

there with sirens

and a net he’d

find a hole in.

I pulled my hand out

clutching fibers

from its woolen vice

reluctantly curling

into a tight coil-

left weaving

thread together.