lost

and now you come back
with the rain
following the path of lightning
you beat on the door
in a landscape of flashes
i see all the drowned kittens
returned to life
mewing for milk
amidst inconsolable night
the yard is unraked
the house empty
what can i feed them
he is already here
waiting with ball peen and sack
is it only the weather
the way your wet dress
clings to your body
strands of dripping hair
the slightness of you
curling against me
as day begins to break

a bear and a boat

there's an old story
about a rowboat abandoned at sea
it's the same story
as the one about a wounded bear
staggering on a crag--
the spinning of the world
has been arrested
stars revolve without it
there are no tears which are not made
from parts of other stories
or rather there is only one story
told again and again
about how an oar cuts water
excavates a certain volume--
how much is removed
how much returned
what do you do with what's left over
there are no waters
that can fill a cavity
dug from fifty years of marriage
a man of ninety
tries to fill it with stories
too often retold
a bear in a boat
crosses an ocean
returns to the forest
where it was born
at midnight
when the night is cold
and overflowing with stars
the bear is summoned
by voices it has always known
called back again and again
by a name almost forgotten
the boat is empty and oarless
rocking on waves
the boat lies on shore
overturned
left for many years
its gray wooden frame
long surrendered to sand

orginality

Take Larry for instance,
he opened a service-station
in the middle of nowhere
and then added a bar--
for don't we all know those
whose car problems drive them to drink?
The paint has flaked
those years of sun have bleached
but who besides Larry
uses overturned pistons as cups?
Though some will tell you
his whiskey tastes like gasoline.