Poetry

As you dress, early mist
reflects moonlight and silence
between the winter hills

For the heron that rousts the swamp, thank you. 
And for spiders shocked into gradual sleep.

I am not old but old enough to believe
I know what Jimmy Stevens wants
when he invites my sister
into his Model-A. And because

Business never slows for the air’s ubiquitous
morticians, their spiraling so effortless

we might admit its beauty, if we didn’t know
how eagerly, in those ridiculous black boas,

The stones are grown over with moss,
canker-eaten, illegible even to the sun

There drifts the sky again,
Here, a single thought crawls slow as a flea.

There was a burst
of static
on radios
all over the city