Poor poet, has to write, trees turning green
Leaves like yellow smoke
Nostalgia in the very eyes
Doesn’t matter, he or she poet
Wistful dizzy wants to wrap the old arms
Around a certain oak
My friend, I’ll be back…
**
I kid you not, I kid you not…
**
After reading Wallace Stevens
Its time for a palette cleanser…
**
The ardent period of life
Just now
Drinking water
**
Dear mother, if I could conjure you
I’d take you fishing again
Sink the rowboat again
Sit in the shallows with you again
Laughing as perch we’d caught
Swim away….
**
A game I play picturing business men
As birds—whippoorwills, grackles,
Magpies eating everything…
**
An old shell am I, O Lady of Zephyrium…
Planet of the Blind 