Sky sailing, restricted much. In sweet wallflowers known to be birds,. Hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works. Which handed you the sunset. A flake, sky sea-iris. Some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,. Familiar rocks, somber love and God.

Zapped everything into place,. Resulting in His Desires,. And, concurrently, nonimmediately,. Aboriginal scars traveled internationally,. Under-recognized in regions remanded for romance. Or, for unmanageable fear. Sages know water vanquishes fire,. Dirt distorts windy columns,. Gusts displace oceans of truth-birthed passages.

Another night of drinking but. And the last time I saw you. Your hair was long and. Kept falling down over one eye. And when I get home. I search for your number. A pile of old Christmas cards. Dialing past three in the morning. When I ask for you.

The Day the Looking Glass Shattered. The Day the Looking Glass Shattered. I discover I can no longer live. With the woman who shares my bed. Lost in an oxycontin fog,. A line of ducks glides by. Submerged in a slick olive coat of Vaseline oil. I close my eyes and attune. To the billowing swell of dark water. With their long arms extended. And their skinny trigger fingers.

Thirteen Sonnets and Some Fire Music. My life, my wife, and Highway 61. When iron-maidened into sonnet form;. The battered heart of Donne;. To watch in safety any kind of storm;. To feel my brain-buoyed spirit rise above. Most often when I plumb their darkness, dear.