staying upright
so the light can enter my eyes
from behind

time away again
massing weeds
the pleasure of clearing

a vibration
close and below

death despair
and a great rigor

dark towering cool
elm wood shade
filling my lungs in May

a long silence
held my breath
this morning

this morning
the sky fell into my chest

seeing through
the winter trees

an empty snow
day today
and nothing to say

I meet a wandering monk yesterday
here in the middle of Kentucky
he was crazy in love
and telling everyone

dog paws bringing earth
to my pillow again
rooting my dreams

I didn’t write yesterday (with pencil)
it was a lost day
hollow and conventional

crazy armed tree
impossibly long limbs
meandering

silence is the only rigour
that brightens
these words

October elm tree
glowing from the inside

born
once or twice a week
again

death will be
the vertical lines
in an aurora borealis

trying to tread
the boundary

its why late nineteenth century paintings
are so good

weak ghouls
they flee
so easily

mornings
the fresh darkness
at my kitchen table

silence sinks deep
stitching organs strong

my toes are cold
this Sunday morning
hot tea in hand

the clouds
are always moving
my persistence

I must be still
if the cream is to collect
in my head

this is exactly what I need
and yet I wish and dream