The Precision of Leaving

There are places less significant
than this: gnarled trees,

the barn with the face of an old man
carved in its slates, the stagnant

black well. There were seasons
stacked like fields, rounded

haybails left out to dry,
the berry bush tangled

in weeds; each red fruit
choking. We gathered them

thinking of mulberry seeds
and imagined the pie.

There are reasons for leaving-
when the snow came down

grey ducks would fly
in V's precise as decision,

the pond still and mourning
in the farmer-child's eye.

The Art of Watching

Sometimes, seeing
thinks clearly, knowing-

across a field she watches
the sleek-feathered crows

each dark shape strutting
divergent, unplanned roads

picking purple-red beetles
from the dug-up snow

as the brown-hooded hawk
circles down.

Comfort

The wolf
curls its body

into a fist

of sleep.

The Window's Light

When we look in
from the dark,
the window's light
is cruel; when a body

becomes transparent
as leaf veins held
against a glowing sky
and struck by its beauty...

we sacrifice
our hidden
future.

Who shuts out
the cold by dying?
Who feeds the mind
with grains of night?

If our weight
becomes the same
as thunder, as infinite
as the shadowed hills,

if we look away
from suicidal stars,
the burning arc
of nature's will-

we come away
with nothing.

Haiku Exercise....

He slept-
the black shape
outside his window
kissed him.

In bare feet
the sands
danced
in the moonlight.

The sky spilled
out of its cup,
fell into
the sea.

The night's
terrible hand
plucked down
the stars

and tasted
them.

Dreamer

First cold-pressed
new moon,

the madame moth
to be discovered

in the quiet meadow-

the room
where I am sleeping.

The glass eye
blooms

like water-

the shape of drowning.

Even as my body
dreams

my tongue seeks
for flavor,

the sweetness
of these depths...

the fluid
downward

movement of
the dreamer.

Pity

Joined at the hip, the minutes
and hours, the time it takes

for a hair to split
two worlds-

your mouth,
my skin; to peel

the beautiful, swirling
reels of rose

from its golden
stamen.

I prefer to write:
"there is no pity

in these wrists, no
counting measure

for these bones
growing together,

no perfect solemn
covenant of duty-

just moments
without their secrets".

Sunset

White moves-
burns
the egret.

Flame
colored
wing.

Iris orange
eyes.

Tiger-lily
sky.