April

I drove
the Wheel

Horse down the banks

of the
Saint Joe

as the cold rain fell.

It is spring
in South Bend, IN.

Everything is dead, but the daffodils.

Dead, dead, dead;
My love--

                the daffodils.

Dream Candle

Everything happens for a reason,
but I can't quite figure out what that reason is.

It's a squirrel problem--
a middle of the road problem.

A worm problem when it rains;
writhing to the surface,

hoping not to drown.
But the black tarmac is wailing.

Wailing tiny screams.
I only hear them when I'm dreaming.

The Come & Go

The overwhelming feeling
of someone lovely coming into your life

and then leaving--

a single photograph where you can't quite
make out the face.

[a voice is impossible]

              What are friends for?

Storm

I can hear skeletons all around me.
I like to imagine that the explosions are empty,

but spinal cords get popped like licorice ropes.
I always see the most painful faces.

I am not even interested in flowers anymore.
I associate the smell with corpses.

The type of body that calls you by your name
can only be identified by the red glow in the ether.

I remember when clouds looked like animals.
Now all of the animals just look like clouds.

Circles

The bloodhounds screech like hawks. A hooked beak is sorting its nest. A tree puts its arm out for the foot's crescent-hold. A survey is being conducted on the sub-ethereal gases; the poplars have been swept into the black river vacuum.

When the Delta Moon shines over the Fraxinus oleaceae, the foothills become bone-white cocoons ebbing in the footmass; the thunder of exuvium.

Biped

My bird profile
is in fox-body.

Both front
legs are broken.

Web

Sky-wolf
curly foot-wolf
pup-curl
swirly woof
woof-swirl
wolf spider
spiral out
the tree
formation