he rolls over orion
who dives, shield first, into the horizon
he watches as the scorpion advances,
tail quivering over the hunter’s heel
the pleiades disappear in a breath,
reappear in the corner of your eye
Breathe
We gather dry twigs and sticks
from bone-white trees,
put a spark to the pile.
Juniper smoke uncoils
from the smoldering ball.
Down in the valley,
coyotes yelp,
remind us to add air.
The Titans sleep
Four Roses bottles halo heads,
and unstruck matches teeter on fingers
creased with soot.
Cigarettes stick to cracked lips.
Dust dunes about shoes,
roll into cuffs and gather in the corners.
Eyelids twitch, noses whistle.
Tufts of down flutter in beards.
virginia
with two fingers, she lifts the box,
tells me to stop eating in bed again,
and blows me a kiss
Sylvester Graham never knew.
Insomnia
At fledgling dawn
we lie back to back
and try to forget.
The Prince of Madison Avenue
Sunday mornings, Howard, white stubble lit up
under a faded ball cap, scolds children,
moves traffic about with his walking stick.
Mass begins and the street grows quiet.
He eases into the porch swing,
feeds squirrels HiHo Crackers
and tells them where to go.
Ragged
Around 3 a.m., stars twinkle
in the last of the heat
rising off the pavements.
Even big dogs have gone to sleep.
The city lifts a little,
expands without weight of people
and machines and all that worry.
You can even hear it breathe.
The statuary artist
In the smells of latex, rusted iron rods
and cool basement stone,
he hums Mozart,
sands the breasts of Venus.
Virginia, July 22
Her fingers work clothespins,
swipe wrinkles from sheets,
drop the smell of sun and wind
into the basket next to the bed.
The day the U.S. Army lost the war
Headstones in the cemetery at Ft. Buford, Montana:
Son of Owlheadress, beat to death, July 22, 1868
Owlheaddress, dead of drink, Aug. 20, 1868
At Sally’s, Son of Owlheaddress,
swayed before Cap’t Johnson
who turned him out into the night.
Egged on by moonlight
and stars like stripper’s veils,
he went back and got beat to death.
At the bar, between two whores,
Owlheaddress turned to his drink.
Cap’t Johnson, back at the post,
polished his boots.
Full moon, one moon later,
Owlheaddress sprawled over his son’s grave,
eyes wide, galactic debris
tinkling in his heart.