if we could only count the speckles

i. because there was no rain to soak us through

the timid beak of the bathing thrush
concentrically ripples the polished dapples.

the mirrored pool smirks beneath austere maples,
an intrusion of rust forcing the oxbow birth:

there is a current that knows its swirling mind
and will not bend to unbend the cowering mud.

six stark claws leave evidence of lather.

ii. each fluttering wing has a hidden story

one flashing swoop flips a visitation,
blackly tumbling a quilled re-division
for the fossilized flutter of a feathered bed.

latitudes where a fallen bud once made sense
seem to diminish in the gray uncertain moments
and the intoxicating orange of a crisply setting sun:

an idle counting of ones and twos and threes
reflects the breathy throbs of what might be:

an ironic ode to the ocher futilities of shale.

iii. into the quiet thrashing of languid dreams

each drooping laughing half-formed leaf
that spurts to flourish in early spring
becomes a sermon on the mount unheard.

each drip of sap a sticky tear
that runs through the maple eyes
of a world that will never bloom:

a cryptic euphoria that fails each breath
when the end of the clouds is grasped.

your mock apple pie is already being served.

the pulchritudinous turpitude of medusa in the tub

i. to peek upon the washing is its own secret rite

the first bath of an oddly promising spring
easily births its own peppery cascading joy-
what might have speckled in the continuing winter
rushes into the copper stream and, lonely, drifts away:

the pesky mites that might have ravaged bloody roses
clamor onto crafty rafts of golden straw and, clutching, float away-
they will not burrow in the clay-skinned perfection of ageless models,
they only want to, quietly, stroke themselves and drift away.

ii. windows are made of abysmally slow liquid

reflections of a dead branch grasping,
held by green hands that will not let it drop:

these trees inside the water
that hints of other currents.

in the dry season the rooks come out to play-
it is not the dry season now:
the release of pent-up yellow on the weedy hill
has its inner sense of dignity.

the shadowy plumb of straightened lines,
in your sinking house of rotted soffits.

skinned knees on cracked concrete are a stark reward.

iii. it's hard to deny the cyclical

there is no mortared vault of berries yet,
inscribed in autumn with beaded numerology
or the angled facts of a hooded ghost:
the jeweled sconce of red and blue and green
plastered in a room that has drifted earthward.

through the years no angle stays true:
the pedestal font begs for the dirt of your ablutions
and the adulation only, if at all, reflects back at you.

there may be a green salad at the picnic next door.

soap is dosas spelled backwards

It's easy to despise the sardonic grins of spoiled poodles-

Many also claim that potato rolls are the lowest form of bread:
It is hard to disagree more without intending violence.

There was a man whose highest gift was the ranking of soups:
He's better suited for tidal water, the sea is just too much-

He's coming back as a dog,
Skipping cat completely.

Muddy jeeps parked at jaunty angles
Hint at something you cannot grasp.

The universe is larger than your stomach can hold.

murmurs from a perfect afternoon

i. drifting into that hermetic seal

the picket fence stands proudly unwashed
in the three trunk hemlock afternoon:

it is all held together by wispy cables
and the dreamy embroidery of soapy eyelets-
those painted threads of yellow, green, and rust
that are all inside a glassed-washed afternoon:
the clearing fog of then and now and when.

a tempting little drip will propel the suspect elders
to wander into the white promise of the warping slats.

ii. the trifurcation is an amusement that briefly matters

she dances in the chartreuse lemon spring,
is the green summer of our frothing joy-

she flutters again in orange leaves,
that, saintly, burst and burn in autumn:

ironic words of appreciation always seem to fail
in a way that is pervasive and, oddly, geometric
on the tear-stained Appian Way of patio pavers:

there are many things that cease to matter
in the Euclidian formulae of wind-swept leaves.

yet, we try, and try again, to simply find the point.

iii. back to the idle rust of dropping cones

each shadowy dot of near and distant leaves
is bartered by the tricky once-washed slats,
traded for a moment that waves good-bye, well met:
saplings proudly foil the coniferous quivering-

the compost can, always, existentially blue,

a calming retreat from the obscenity of now
that is telegraphed by this obstinate relic-

boasting of a clarity almost reached
if, indeed, it was reachable at all.

the rest just freezes,
impotent in the set of choices and meanings-

what is the course beyond the fence?

through the unwashed slats there is only:

the soothing green of the distance mown,
the windy rhythm of dappled seed,
the promise of pale berries, lush and sown.

when wry goes horribly awry

I tried to buy your silk-screen,
but mommy wanted milk:
I only needed glasses
'cause me lennies was feckin' fucked.

I squinted through the reckless lines
of inky greed on fabric.

It's easy to love the raining coppers,
but the patina takes too long.

I never studied physics
but I heard about the neutron:
I heard things other things, too.

I was a child soot painted
and crawling on mine skinned knees,
working through the shadowy nave,
hoping to find a candled altar
where that green-blue rust was true.

From your words and your words only,
I was able to struggle, fully hod,
into the crimson light of day.

Can a brother get a witness
and a bartered square of soap?

There are moments
and moments, again,
that call you home.

All art freezes time,
even the mostly easiest,
the shudder click of rhyme.

ode to the saintly moth of a modern glee

there might be a dance that rhythms bleakly,
away from the sneaky beadle's crafty stare
a pillar carved to blossom in hidden stone,
roses in secret corners where the few might go:

it is a seductive distance from cold stone joy
to the erect monastic chant, a flying buttress
is also nice to bobble in the saintly tide,
an easy wish for the iconic joy of marble:

just to be somebody must be a potent thrill.

all are eternally frozen in a stony grasp
just beyond the step that steps from two to more-
the weak calf captured on a brick that seems to move:
cloudy dissipation that tempts and fools, repeatedly.

little bulbs pop and flash an afternoon devoid of gnats
cropped scotch pines frame an obese ballerina-
was it frozen by the chimes of an icy carillon?

is the little bird that licks the melting dew
merely a moment that matters and does not?

come little bird, then, lick the ineluctable dew
from pistils now and then-
they are mostly a grainy flash of orange.

you can only move to defy the eternal sun
when you choose to bloom downward,
piercing the wet earth with a fragrant sigh.

overheard something about a wall

there are thirty-seven ways of dealing with a brick wall
when you do not count the moss that scales your growth:

the first way levies a smart tax on the scattering gray,
way thirty-seven a bitter grinding of spent and bloodied flesh-
the in-between a forgotten study of the mesh of considerations
chronicled by crusty sages and a glacial permutation of beards:

the cat's cradle of crow's claws scratch isosceles in the sand.

between mortar smash and vermillion splatter
the arithmetic of salty after mirth is just a playground
evolving from sweet blue rust to chartreuse plastic:

the heavenly brat swings through gravity's lurch
and bullies the cream cheese and jelly from unsuspecting grins-
stolen tarnish from the sweaty coins of palmed redemption
is ransomed by strawberry globs and a bread-like offering
that, in its globular wonder, seems like a god is coming.

there are many ways to chatter and one way to silence.

this is not devoid of gray and grainy pleasure
and that is, wonderfully, the way to point your brickwork-
the now is great with its equilateral trowel,
the then a softly dripping, if encrusted, trough.
luscious ocher wax drips from a taper that is over-
the worst of the stains elbowed into musty boxes
by the steadfast recovery of yellowed grease.

this is mostly not enough.

the crushing ubiquity of chainlink

maybe it was the stalking mystery
that ran the perfect sidewalk blind,
waiting to pounce from the pebbled curb,

that forced the bark of health to wonder
whether claws could crack the code
and the scarlet purring of a cougar mind.

sure, there was mustard slathered rye
and the delivery of a crumbly toast
to dispel the cryptic myths of bread:
a carnage of sandwich in a deft parade,
that produced this lathering of frothy madness.

what was missed in the grim procession
was a reaper moving from black to red
through the harvest of suburban hedgerows:
a scythe of pink deliverance in curved disguise.

one build-up, one moment, one release,
in the technicolor pomp of circumstance,
to pierce the pump that pumps no more:

one long commuting train leads to return-
it's a lonely way to save a crumpled ticket,
to come once again upon the carnal thicket.

it was just a canine flashing for a pound,
a reet petite on the down low snapping ,
insanely unaware of the limit of the links:
one bubbly ocean cry for foamy limits
in the uncertain azure of your prison mind.

no wonder dogs play poker.

laying down an offer of peace [sic]

hey little lamby,

come here I'll lick your thigh-

nothing scary,

just a nibble where fleece is shorn.

the pierce will be the start of spring,

but not with fang or claw-

just a little nudging

that will move you into bloom.

there is no blood this cycle,

just lapping at the place of birth:

the lion suckles too.

the sigh that falls on absence

skyward tendrils form invisible drifts

that christen smoking aspirations,
a golden chrism of gasped consecration-
your sacrifice so heaven in unseen mist.

can you sense again the crush of crinoline,

that opened, playful, your emerald chalice?
did the hush and hiss of the aural world
cast a sensual catechism on your carousel,
and did you mind, in your mind, or elsewhere?

remember the glorious cascade that roared
near gorse, sharp brambles, and naked thorns,
a course of white torrent through the chasm,

caressing velvet rocks and mossy pebbles
with the natural peace of untamed streams-

recall the scary roar that measured passion-
so sweet your quiver near metronome reeds:

remember that blistering, glistening yellow prism

when the blue grotto and red rhythm
could not help but sanctify the sky.

were the cirrus spasms that stained your dress
reflected in the wispy clouds that hid the lidless sun
in the lidded moment of your rolled white eyes-
that stole the bright but not the warmth
from bronze monstrance and rushing brook?

did the hawthorn blooming unusually pink
bleed a little on your blushing thigh?

in the subtle saffron of your sublime quiet
lies the silent history of what was
and what lives, still, in the musk of memory.

kyrie eleison
kyrie eleison
kyrie eleison