Friday, July 31, 2015

Weekly Worded


Each time my neighbor cuts his field
the summer is that much shorter,
and as he gathers and stacks the bales
it calls to mind how much it takes

to feed the winter. It’s not so bad
living where I do, hope persistently rising
from twenty acres of stubble, my lungs
filled with the fragrance of his labor.

At haying time his combine clicks
like the beads on an abacus
back and forth against the horizon.
I am counting the days.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Weekly Worded

         The Other One

My left hand looks older,
first time I've noticed this century.
Naturally, I knew it would age,

those fingers opening and closing
like a chorus line, providing
a lifetime of stimulation.

So what did I expect?
Helping out, holding on
while the right one labors for both.

I'm surprised how the veins
have thickened, how the skin
puckers like tissue paper.

Clenched or unclenched,
it does mostly what it's told.
There, it reached

to touch my face.
See how it makes amends?
I forgive you, I forgive you.

Go wrestle with your brother
while I try to figure out
where you left the aspirin.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Weekly Worded

        Almost Human

Little known, the man comes home
to where he wasn’t missed,
unlocks his door, slips off his shoes,
imagines being kissed.

He waits a cautious moment,
inhales the stale air,
as if to little known, the man
could sense he wasn’t there.

He boils a cup of coffee,
he carves a slice of meat.
He says a little prayer
to always there, his feet.

He’ll watch a little football
before he goes to bed,
then hike the hinterland of his dreams
where little’s ever said.

Friday, July 10, 2015

Weekly Worded

       Death Song

I can not say when it will be,
though I know it’s out there
circling like a hawk on a thermal.

All the predictable catastrophes
lined up like songbirds on a wire,
lulling me with their mellifluous warble

but the one I’m waiting for
promises to be nothing I could imagine,
a cataclysmic massage

that starts at the back of the neck,
works it way into a pocket
of my brain where all the lightning

I’ve ever seen collects in a tracery
of veins so charged with brilliance
the illumination opens all of me --

not just my eyes -- and what I see
for a brief moment
tempers the tip of eternity.

Friday, July 3, 2015

Weekly Worded

       An Older Truth

I cut the plum tree down today.
No lesson here. No lie.
I cut the plum tree down today
because it died.