Twenty Something

You walk the crescent
moon of a Michigan road,

lunar thresher.

The fabric of fields,
the body of a coyote,

a deer perhaps
floating in the spoon

of a small lake.

Will skeletons rise
to greet you?

Cut a hole in the ice.

Postcard from Indiana (Dadaist Poem)

Game of false home
cream,

Promised.

Stuff the mixture pan.
We're on

Commercials

and printed
on other vanilla—

the topping

cannot change every-
one's postcards—

     Indiana.

Boxes

I lost my intuition.
I mean, I removed myself

from her body.

I trusted raspberries
and crescent moons

to take me for a walk.
I mean to take me

to the afterworld,

not the one in movies,
the one where we

communicate in bones,
my fingertips

on your lower spin,
your ivory brow

resting in the space between forever.

Circle Removed from a Circle

You are just
cold wind

pushing the warm
wind around.

Cryptic,
somewhere—

Minnesota.

Bound to push
out the wolf.

Lips puckered
for removal,

not like a kiss—

after

the fall.

Earth Star

I am eternally
yours,

10 hours
west

on 80/90,

700 miles
through 3 states,

waiting
on the banks

of the St. Joe
river.

Waiting
for Wednesday

morning's
crescent moon.

Good News!

More of my poems to be published. I have two poems forthcoming in Two Hawks Quarterly.

Three

I arise, move things

around with you 

wolf

ish

grey

sleep

between sheets 

of fog and ether-din

deer 

spiral

fright
ful

when morning collapses 

into noon's ejected star.