in a small town, when we hear the ambulance, everyone holds their breath

her hands are freezing



into november's wind; she releases a boneless quail

sidles to the sink and runs hot water
into a soapy dishpan

the flowering almond looks skeletal without leaves

bony fingers tap a table top

she misses low
light most; the yellowed lamp shade

the choked 45 watt reading bulb






she will not decorate this year

the season will remain packed
tight in a clear box; a ceramic santa pressed nose to plastic

a glass snowflake will wreak no further havoc






the fishbowl on the deck has ice in it

no splash of orange, no breath
or sad float- in a cold quiet testament to change; ice cracks







oh, and what of the fish
who were?
who were?

the poet refuses an answer





dog shit really stands out in the snow

nothing to see here folks
keep moving, keep moving





sometimes i would rather have the poke in the eye



a flat line writer
pretties a page and imitates a poet's heart-beat
she labels the moon cold-blooded

i think to argue, to explain; in this town
the moon
is a tin can rinsed and rattling down the street, clean
and empty; or a scoured sink filled with fresh-dug potatoes

or maybe it's a virgin, draped in white linen, plump and expectant





i believe in ghosts

she pads through my house

in pink slippers

the world is naturally yellow


each night, while she sleeps, the earth
gathers thick, hickory smoked air inside a frozen lake of lung


then waits for the sun to make shadows of mountain
and pine





all these thoughts and it all comes down to sex

if it were possible
i would breathe you; the last morsel of
civilized air

a track and tram
in a city of hills

a mountaintop tumble
of arm and tit

a divining rod
you would tease

right before the low moan and man-cub noise;
before the pull of wrapped-ass closer





memories should probably have bright hair and clothes too

and then here; inside the nod, we part ways
in the shift and flip flop of bodies
on the cold side of cotton


the wrung rewrings, dead revisit
and a lamp post is never just as it seems






maybe tomorrow i'll write something and actually finish it

a poem that ices and drips from the eaves

and has absolutely
nothing to do with me

.