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first frost came too soon.

i slept in, showered, sexed, rolled over and up

to scrape ice off the windshield while the engine warmed.

wondering what was left of the garden.

split tomatoes had spilt their seeds

on soil crust glistening with last breath.

cold fingers fumble to collect

and run under water to thaw.

leaves suspended

slowly turn to match the color they saw last

like the inside of an eyelid.

they die in dreams.

frost comes only late at night when no one’s watching.

squash vines become ghosts, uncurl their grasps.

flowers wilt and whirl sideways to expose underbellies.

i try to transplant into little pots placed on windowsills

south facing symbols of cause lost.

the compost is full. it’s my fault.

i thought I could hide the carcasses there. I’m told

it’s better to uproot and leave over where they lie.

light on in the attic. i like

the idea of coming home to something.

not quite this.

listen

to trains gnash their teeth in the night and scream to stop.

sounds made crisp by the cold.

hiss of heavy breathing. labor pains.

like a playground tire swing

chains wrapped tight, round and round til they choke up.

clenched fists, little knuckles white with anticipation.

waiting to exhale.

mountain living

someone left the burner on. it wasn’t lit,

just gas filling a room slowly, in the hotel

over the pawn shop, where i live with fourteen others and

then some. we buy anything of value. 

a boy and girl walk in with a large cardboard box of

dark frosted plums they picked from a friend’s tree.

her belly is big now, like the pumpkin in my garden

that we never planted; it grew on its own.

i don’t know how much longer she has. she wants

to have her baby in the teepee at the school house

on burnt fork road. its seam is held together with sticks, mostly sage.

it looks like a wound. once, i peeled back the flap and looked inside.

there was a red wheel barrow, a radio flyer, empty.

old things, worn down with soft

peeling edges feel good, like fitting

a button through the hole where it lives.

the boy strings his guitar. the wires are curled around the end

and i don’t want him to cut them off. i like them better that way

but i don’t say so. she slices the plums while he works. occasionally,

she asks for his advice. do you think this will be too gooey?

should i add more sugar? they forgot butter and we're out. 

when i come back, the pie is on the counter, open faced. they want to make the crust

look like the one on the box-- cross hatched wavy lines. i look for the right utensil

but only find a pizza cutter. she uses a paring knife instead and decides

to make a mandala. i take a picture. she never looks up.

later, the pie is half eaten. i cover it in plastic wrap.

i haven’t seen them all day but there is a box of apples with a sign that says

for crisp. maybe i should make it, but i don’t want to.

the sunrise and sunset looked identical today. i saw both.

i wonder if the world has changed in the space between,

and how. 

all the live long

                                and the wheels on the bus go round and

round. but not really. in this reality they lurch and skid and stutter,

shutter to a grinding halt and all the hands hanging from rafters

turn to fists, knuckles clenched in the cold like teeth, row after row

of pianoless keys, sheathed in fuzz fabric leather lace, all in a line.

but not evenly dispersed, simply displayed wherever they stand.

meanwhile the air fills with noise: the gurgle of gears, a constant

buzzing that seems to come from light alone, white fluorescent bulbs,

machine belly burps, and everyone looks around, not quite sure what’s

right, what’s wrong, just waiting for the next last stop when the voice

of god says their time has come. move along. step down. doors open

inward. be careful. brace yourself. it felt so good to hold on for a while,

let go and be guided. no questions asked. now you’re on your own.

find the way.
 

song of an old man

laying low, flat on my back, watch

the stars run their course through

the sky. wondrin whether my blood

wou'd still run, if the rivers all went dry.

                 and the sun burned out,

back to where it came and the grass

dried up into sand. would my heart beat

still, in its cage of bones

t’ carry me cross the land?

the world goes black like the space

in between the sun and the moon

and me, and the silence that lies

in the pools of your eyes beggin' to

be set free.

sometimes i feel when the light’s

just right and the sea and the sky

blur to one, that our fates are sealed

and the earth'll end and yet it's all

just begun.

if your fingers should find their way

into mine and your head on my shoulder

rests, when the clouds roll in and

the birds fly out, we'll bury ourselves

in their nests.

the worms will come and the rain

will fall and everythin'll be as it

should, but for us two souls in

the river's bed, tryin to find our

way through the woods.

become rain

last late cottonwood seed,

all others swallowed by the river

before it dropped. you

took time to find the shafts of sun.

are you lonely now?

mars in retrospect.

fallen leaves in a spiral eddy mind

wander in circles, heart hard pressed

follows face down to watch where she'll go,

never noticing the sky.

others trace the wind on maps

from a bird's eye they make with glass,

chase the light across the river

where still warm sand swallows

bare arches.

cheeks squint to sea

the aspens dance tirelessly.

release a spool of thread.

see it pass. feed the river. we

carry it with us always.

let it

light from street lamps

bends branches into halos

mimicking moths once

gathered round

to whisper secrets in

language lost.

catch and release. sense

a sudden shudder coming.

rock the woods to

sleep wrapped in warm breath.

mourning glorious

peel back blanketed dreams,

let the ghosts disperse into

growing light.

coming consciousness of rain

drops on roof.

roll over and

fall to earth.

dig fingers in dirt

to root.

let grass tickle in

lets between

limbs

hold hands

and pull up

against gravity's grace.

peach petals unfurl

piston poised.

embrace day:

inhale clouds,

exhale dew.