stones shifted in the mountains where we layand worried      we asleep, toed rockslides slickwith barefoot walks and broken branches       clayturned blue myopic eyes towards starshine quickto spill its secrets into rivers coldwith choru

the sun has been hiding on the other side of cloudsall day all week wind in white cocktailsautumn holding back but giving peeks of yellowleaves over the stream pregnant with raindid you hear the birds arrive? oak leaves weavebraids through children

Take one stewing hen, about four poundscut up, and marinade it under halogen lights of autumn – stir in moon splashes and Campbell’s cream of mushroom soupFind a non-modern wife who is willingto stir and pop the glue-like bubblesthat form over sp

this day in Maine grows pumpkins and fogdaisies carpet the hills of MesopotamiaKepler wonders at lawns circumscribed by sweeps of moon beams        roads stompover tulips eaten by the junkman’s horseto my friend, I toss all my treasured str

ash burned hope replaces nighthours lit through a messagetelegraphed along coffee lines    my lungs are filled asheavy downpour rousts naked birdssinks slow boats in shadowy lakesin a cold rusty park violin stringsquiver air into heat for our toe

Should I tell you a storyof red leaves and autumn fires?Of a girl lost in the brambleswhile you were sleeping where lilies grow?Should I summon you ashoreto scour reefs or dig clamsfor our light lunch while holy mencalm the tempest     and walk

in a halogen autumn the junkman’s           watch hingeson stars    turning fingers with the penultimate dayold as the firework thumb-latch might seem – man things clanging, women parts replacing footing      never soundon roun

saturday night suppah    or baked beans & brown breadcrusty seas through a flicker-pot over thickened    these years gone aught     in       an open bone-cup, in a pool's day of mean cover & horse burned junk     finge

my brushstrokes stain a brash confidence –a firework explosion within my brainopens the window to things not thingsbut shots of up-winged condorsmy stars are venus and marsa soup of a day turning, dropping her leavesinto ancient waves, stars swimmi

there is no one to talk to methe cobblestones are under a red sun sank                  i was levelledas if you were some holy man and my streetwas less blessed than yoursafter the kiss, we walked down roadsshaded with elmsour hand-holding f

my love lies on Darwin’s beachlobed fins too small to reach the coconutsthough his underbelly knows truths (so closeto the sand) beyond the first bony fishesland is a democratic anarchy –ascetic nights consumed in prayeryour fingers grasp at the

is it a season of apples or skateboardsnoon heating a cuckoo birdtime once again shatters in mynongenius handsyou pull the blanket over meand draw the blindsshall I repeat sweet words smiling    the fattest purple zinnia at the turnaroundhollows

The crocodiles, with lovely skin,dismount from high the tamarackto swing in a bellowing beguinered as the wavering wind – a stagof weary flames and clouded eyejoins in the dance. Three throats, my life curve round the wheezing of the frogs,three th