when the rain rests
right over the breeze,
the trees and grass feel it-
I do, and you.
so how come when news
brews above your tongue
no siren’s song
sears my skin?
Inside some minds
Revolves a jagged scrap, a metal shape
On display in the dark like an African diamond.
Night flares shoot from its sharp-angled corners,
Maiming pulsing webs of soul, bone and vein.
A brilliant kill- dead and done are the
Nektons of the spirit.
Braid me a March clover necklace-
I don’t need a flower on each stem.
Your dancing fingers bring me luck-
With silver spider’s thread you weave a window.
Give me presents green and wild
And I’ll fold the sweet wind into a fan.
Kiss the spring clouds with our air-fan
And I’ll lasso the apple trees with our necklace.
We’ll be soft, gentle, and wild,
Blowing each dandelion from its stem,
Framing our faces with an ivy-leaf window,
Smiling horseshoes of good luck.
Our hands, four leaves of unplucked luck,
Our breath the scented season’s fan,
Our eyes a painted puddle-window,
A gem in nature’s fragrant necklace
Which wraps its bright blooms around the stem
Of a thin, newborn world, prematurely wild.
In like a lion, March wanders wild.
Heel-clicking, dancing like a leprechaun’s luck,
Gustily ripping flower from stem.
Under the rain showers, wet grasses fan,
Sparkling and twisted like a long-chained necklace.
Early March beats like a bird against a window.
But raging weeks have a short window
March’s beauty is not all fierce and wild.
While sharp breeze like a necklace
Chokes the first of March, late weeks’ wisps of luck
Soothe the harsh sting, still the fan.
Soft lamb’s ear petals smile from roughened stem.
March is our month- petal, root, and stem.
We see the year through its bright window.
Through the seasons we fan
Ourselves with its wonderful wild.
You and I, the March clasp of luck,
Linking together spring’s silver necklace.
My necklace of green stem,
Your breezy luck that weaves a window,
Framing the whispers wild, watching friendship fan.
When I see the shy pink blossom of a tree,
I scoff at black-and-white photography.
We see the blush
But point-and-shoot
And kill
The colors we forgot we grew into.
We meant to
Shake the dried petals
Away from the binding,
But the blinding, aging sun-flash
Won’t stop reminding
Us of the shadows on the dial
We fade as we capture
We develop into masters
Our slaves’ blood the gray ink
Glossed in our history book portrait.
Under feathers
Huddle all the dark,
Sharp things of the world.
The bird womb breeds
Beaked fury that scurries
On Swiss-army knives,
All blades bared.
Like sharp treasures
In pockets
Forgotten,
Their cries send needles
Through veins, trains
Whistle more subtly
Than the winged refrains
Of my flightless fear.
Our conversations
click around magnetic corners,
attract and oppose,
the horseshoe metal slides
your sounds
over my red thought blocks,
twists and flips
the silver tips until-
snap-
our heads fold to
the horizontal,
the poles quiver
as our souls
join the elliptical current,
the inseparable invisible,
the magnetistic
meeting of minds.
I am a fortune hunter.
My luck and your future
Are in my hands
If we go out to dinner.
I prefer Asian-
Chicken chow-mein,
A good stir-fry,
Or anything
Accompanied with
A little slip, a hint
Of golden cookie wealth,
Chinese blessings sent
To this fortune hunter.
an old wish
the fur, pieces of bone
that see-saw
in what the raccoon left
when the trees get the wind up
an old wish
the deserted dirt-daubers’
crusty pipe-organ home,
hushed and hard
and threatening
an old wish
the abandoned fort
that grew mossy
and wilder than we were
jacsprat 