Collateral Labyrinth

All eight species of grass in the yard
fail under the umbrella of the maple,
and in unimpeded Kinderhook spring rain
mud now bubbles around the flat
black stones joined at the red brick wall.

These days our old dog legs north,
so I set those blocks to stand
in wet moss where roots knot up,
wobbling my best guess at a gait
to tread in the maze onward.

Vernal Migration

Before the cold broke this weak winter,
enough sun on anonymous deciduous trees
to lift hope into my nose
caught me mid step, ambivalent.

Cold lifting was so hard a shift in plan
that I grew madder in the bright parking lot,
and so broke into the garage to warm
at the weak electric baseboard.

I lifted drop cloths like rough disguise
away from weak ladder back chairs,
each old and irredeemable two inch
rib of wood broken under dust’s weight.

Tomorrow, should day break cold,
I'll wander in the warming dawn
about the reservoir, where a white cloud
of green apple blossom lifts into the hills.

Between Pieces

Stunned by winter's tympani
and how near as tapped mallets
the hail seems against glass,
there was plenty of time to hit

the buzzing oven alarm
on the trip down stairs,
picking up empty pop cans with
the pitched canvas kicks,

so I took a crossword guess,
made a phone call to mother
before attempting last week's dish sink
or water and a walk for the dog.

Easel lazes on spotted muslin
until the house chores ebb and let
sea foam swirl around my ankles,
yolk-yellow light my eyes.

Thank You, Maria Colvin

In a crater
in an apartment in Homs,
there is a satchel
of ripstop nylon
that will not melt
even at mortar temperatures,
covered now in pulverized stone -
a kit of necessity smuggled
to families become infernal

under a sin of shells arcing darkly
into hollow kitchens and gardens,
through air sick with your
last breath and the scorched flesh  
from scores of Syrians.

Save a journal,
what does a witness pack
that's not already abandoned
at the end of the world?
You've brought back all we can take:
a boy lies in his shattered street,
belly rising and falling until he dies.

nothing tastes like spaceman

We eat what aliens we might
sieve from our dark supposes.
They bring a tang of disbelief
to the back of the throat
when culled from those rickety
aluminum pie plate ships
flickering like fifties films
shot in the New Mexico skies,
peppered with far yellow stars.

Choosing Uselessness

The casement is all angles of maple:
sill, sash, top and bottom rails,
stile, stool and apron - solid wood.

Beside the window, branches
pound against the tide of the wind.
The moon cracks

the west crest of the canal,
plops down the poplar row
and rolls into the road.

Overhanging green swells closer
as heat and tree frogs screech
in the bell of the dark.

Stone in hand and wind-twisted,
I'm playing hopscotch
on the street chalk squares.

Blood Test Poem

Homework done and trash out --
my goal now is finish this meal without tears,
get to the kitchen and wrap the greens
and bones, little losses we won't toss.

There is no warning gong or whisper
when naivete turns like found cream.
I carry your faltered wilting in my throat,
unwilling to swallow or vomit.

Three days until a pay check,
still no overdue bills, but even
blankets in a car would be enough
were I to lose sleep hearing you breathe.