owl asleep

and another atom strikes me

in the eye and out the ear

into the night and as silent

a high ceiling sealed in cirrus signs

inviscid transparent a hasty blind

patterns fool with curves and lines

who is true and knows their mind

so well as an owl perched peers

down on an extent black waste mired

still would differentiate a mouse and deer

those recognized are admired

each a schema or constituent  

rising from an organ clear

set away in asleep would we

chop chop

breaking splinters between fingers

filaments ripped undefined grain

curliest oak straight cuts interrupt

a fine swing makes the steel sing

an atmosphere piled here in tumult

then neatly then reduced into thin air

oil is jet black

look at how the axle is frozen

taking on a mocking attitude

and even snapped in two

still stuck and even stepped on

again and again desperate means

hammers and composite toes

loosening the reins

obits

here I am way out here where

so far out west that they

drown in grain

if marching in 

one by one

how long will it take?

black walnuts

the earth is just a lump with lumps

where the squirrels have hidden nuts

now steps turn up nothing but dust

do you recall looking me in the eye

through a lens and row of lashes fine

confiding these finds to our spot

and didn't the promise keep true

not me and not you

know which is and which is not

each stumble not more than a hunch

on calcium

behind the ivory gates

a hollow tongue wastes

time carving an alcove

all pretty arcs and domes

open and home to noon

sonorous radiant stained

the same coffee shade

sun occluded by our haze

water tables

look at the rocks in the rain

the moss is green again

the lichens grey and the again

the rest are red needles

rows of lines scattered under pines

november is still slippery 

just the same as is always

otters are in the lost swamp

clover

the find of the century

under a foot most likely

above the excrement

a thousand lichens left

this dirt black as death

a dour leaf clover

groping at the light

green with that one

jagged white stripe

one hundred yards

the hundred yard dash

crashing through the brush

on deer trails over the busted

dam holding back grass

in the granite clearing  

ahead stopping checking 

looking for crawling ticks

a taste a taste

into the pan with those all

alike and round as eyes

primarily special colors

some hot and one cold

at the core soft and white

cooking on stainless

flawless without laws

tastes for all

respite

a breath visible this day

in the sun lungs pump

saturated greenhouse gas

into the dormant plants

leafs dispersed back to earth

sidewalks

lining up in the rain

worms blind to their ways

they think about things

dirt, sun, yesterday all the same

today in the grip of strong rays

they squirm in place and fade

up in the trees robins preen

and speak of their ease

iiowa

dismal as the corn grows

rows and rows heavenly graded

ground going up and down

ploughed back to show the dough

burned black the husks mowed

on fires

bit by bit the saw bites

at certain times not at all

stuck on the push

more than the pull

the ash finds a nice rest

a peculiar tree a niche

one might burn this tonight

expecting heat and light

the pan and the dance

if through the door watch

the wind and all that

revere ware

listing the pots and pans

listening to the pots and pans

ringing and dinging and cooking

variety of sizes of sizzle

quality at the copper bottom

burning thoughts on conduction

 

shopped

standing at the sanding disk

sand spinning a horizontal orbit

fingers visit a burred bit

thin as a knife a blur

thinking about when doing

something with something 

similar someone lost a finger

and lo how they brag

when they grow a finger back

like a lizard grows a tail

like a liar grows a tale 

on fire

on or too near fire to 

feel fine see both

near and from afar

tomorrow onto ought 

the black scorch

marks that earth

 

 

canned goods

the tomatoes in the pan

they look not at all alive

practically dead in fact

at the end of the wooden poker

they mush and make noises

as if they have some kick

after all lets see how

between teeth they squirm

summer dies

rain before noon

between that

what else

wind brings

down leafs

walnut sheafs

yellow like

does the tree hurt?

 

indian summer

the summer is all goldenrod

from this point onward 

and aster so radial so white

with the gold and black

last wasps feeling out an orbit

leaning into the distressing end

glacier

letters spelt into the river

stand stranded amongst the rocks

the glacier split and allowed 

to roll about until found out 

of water and all aglo

distinct are consonants

and less so vowels

talk of sand and how plovers hover

on time as a social construct

guessing what the grass has done

grasping at the stem below the stalks

they end with a litany of seeds

pluck is apt at this hour when

sun burried in haze before the lake

tossing rocks into sand

who will last longer than that

not a one an infinite sum

poor folks

Let's us all of us

Look at the apples

High up in the tree

What they are 

They doing up there

Shriveled and disguised

Drowning in this is desolate

A headline they like

Just for an excuse

Relishing in reasons

Just out of grasp

Drought and no dough

The squirrel wastes time

Waiting is our heritage

As american as pie

black and yellow and green

the wasps huddle together

they whisper in the fragrance

the yellow ends are peak down

in the breeze bouncing, alive almost

tall as the sky and you and i

been there with them

 there they cluster among the dust

normal to the gold

which they wear in stripes

some black some 

slow in the shade

wings folded to the dusk

guess their names

eyes window panes

cardinal winds

and again the wind makes
the river go crazy raving mad
though blind leaps and froths
battering against the walls
turning stone into mud
and mud back into stone
turbid and covered in lines
pointing, an accusing measurement
while we languish extra dry
high upon the porch

i saw a fly

the fly has a grand strategy
and more so than most
 is important
  of
     all
         of
              it
                 is
 is compulsion
which the fly has most often

bottom of feet exposed
to the wings the proven road
the probe the provost
drawing blood
food for young
a soul to catch working in the marsh

chronos

the bath drains water
not as fast these days
sloshing with no
particular effort
circling the planet
or so it seems

an acorn tree

sleeping next to an acorn tree
listening to the early morning
squirrel dancing on the roof
and another and with clogs too
less a verse of pirouette
more a serious hornpipe jig
clomp clomp clomp
squirrel squirrel squirrel
remind me not to set an alarm

penelope

a range of waves to read and play
under the compound curves
penelope takes off lines
what a mind makes of time
a medium just as good
only instances mostly shown
waiting on the pattern to open
the infinite series of crests
and troughs too

the library

the wind coughs through this window
right in and out of these thoughts
also open to other elements
fluid or hard or soft
a table for the periodicals
an old oak or what not

k

the street sweep hasn't been by in days
the night hawks stay awake longer
flying up high they drink the light
green and red dragonflies the next night
pursuing the moon associated dreams
harkening back to when we took rockets
now we live down low to the earth
hell is close

time regurgitates upon the floor

here is where we are
here is where we were
there is where we will be
because we where
here there then

on boats

the bow and the waves
each with certain curves
meant to be perpetually
in motion and are
when together they part

on august

 lets settle for the light to filter

clouds that barely register

the trees let down branches

closer to the bay to listen 

whether broad spans or bristle

this is one summer or another

coefficients_of_drag

wicked as the breezes are regular
from the lake to the inland breaks
those nighthawks fly in perfect light
diving on those other ones who die
as such must

in the backyard the listen of the walnut tree
the gilded green swishes
a motion that is so out of reach
that viciousness of leafs hushes

and other non-dimensional constants

altitudes_true

the heights look finite
as determined by the flutter
the swallows with new feathers
find their ceiling and hit it
turbulent stirs them up there

country in town

the leaves shudder and flys swarm
up the wind rises by
between the starcraft
the path brushes the rough
legs touched here just a hair
the queens anne's lace a new embrace
all edges just fringes

radar

and the wind starts to wind up
for now just whiffs wild swinging
trees arc over and take time
tracing parabolas carrying cicadas
who roar all the while
all the birds that usually fly
are absent in tonight sky

so called

soft as as as the scrape
the lean in of the queen
anne's lace the golden
rods that take a piece
each swipe wishes for a swim
after the sun before the rain
which will happen when again

lace

the low light does one or two
of the queens annes laces
justice pure in both eyes
the center swirls
the forms each petal purls
pulling off a miracle
open closed or half furled

nov29

the line practically
on the cleat tied
on their own
singularly pluraly
purely
neither described
fine as is i
times mine. then
penelope tries
them rime
november shine

continental dollars

let me wish on your stars
says I to the dandy lion
who is in the yard
far fewer in between
the vivacious species
they preen and gleam
greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen
and so grow the rushes
down by the creek
where the bucks
float away
on their backs

hemogoblin

the shade is inviting
to the egyptian proboscis
biting and diving
hitting a vein
cavernous flow
the river my sorrow
tomorrows itch today
swollen flying away

maples

the maple thinks
of birds much
as indicated here
and there on each
and every branch
clusters of twin wings
still and green yet
when hard brown
down they go cutting
the soft air to ground

cicada

cicadas already
at seven thirty
up in the black locust
flight so erratic
in this windy light
appearing beatific
and emerald black

invasive species

the mosquitos land on some bad spots.
this is true. the joints of the limbs
being the worst.  their bites are not
so bad as the way
they lift their
legs up in the air
poised
ready
able
willing
going
to
needle
in


a proboscis
for blood
me a flower
for one
aedes aegypti
or some

welcome
 

bonne temps

onto the last ribs
river water drips
the late night
and morning swim
patterns and visions
dips in is habit

party island

yesterday we swam
where we swam before
the rock was lava
the geese walk on
and poo is how they do it
the roses are thriving
ants are still yellow
some of us slipped
some of us hit
zebra mussels in the shallow
the high water is growing
further up they say from there
where are the straws
slim pickings
we draw them and win
or lose and swim
back and forth back and forth

on turbulence

swallowing the surface
never the deep water
where the current is cold
fast river bending
the eel grass this
way and that way
undulating under water
as much the same
bowfin at rest even
ready to disappear yet
still after millions of years

degree to heat

the gunwhale is underfoot
the waves peak and trough
the ribs touch off
and blow the spot
wide open done enough

visions_versions_squall

the rain cuts a blinding line
baking governers then pine
then bluff then the rock
into our minds
thunder has our hands tied
watch the drops froth
and the bay leap forth
to meet the clouds with more
all of the same
and then we swim away

visions_versions_johnaroo

all late nights end
the river dark night
off trail a hill over
listening to boats list
in the narrows and drop
and walk back into a case
of two at the crossroads
and other kids before bed
make sure to be washed

peonies

listen to these peonies
at night the pink filters
the ripples lift and blister
frequencies indivisible after
visit the eyes without their
edges no extraneous matter

roosevelt

the dimes a dozen
on the pavement clinking
old money scatters stochastic
some roll some spin
in one place on the rim

cottonwood

today on the way
the last snow
showing up and down
the cottonwood throws
pitches our nose blows

brinks

the fringes show
the sun extra dark
a fire black shroud
hung overhead
breaths into gasps
make them last

plumber

the water needs to stop
to start again later
finding the old pipes
new spigots in a few

foghorn leghorn

now see hear now sea here
morning catches the fog
unawares the horns blare
shaken awake scared
 

water cycles

brilliant is the emerald pond
the trees gather around

bustling shiners zipping
rippling up the surface
after the millers and mayflies
spring bugs emerged now back
for a last dip

nets and lines

the spider files the still night
under the heading of right
lines tense and slack
and as the trees grow
we all wait for the midges
to tell us their hum

a patient loom

on longest legs and toes
the heron poses

a theorem on bones

visions_versions_999ca

meandering down dark paths
the acorns gather sharp clinging
at each step a breath
grasses bushes sigh
little ones brush aside
stars millions of miles
light infinitely binds

notes on a slow spring

these are the latest bloomers
some last daffodils still keen
green hinting on melancholy
the spring is long to go
ages ago where april showers
may is truculent and hedged
on hours lost on snow on frost 

bunnies

accross the road
over one another
the rabbits jump
or hop whichever
terminology is vogue
feet to ear ratio
the first prime
essential divisor
leaving carrots
for their incisors

visions_versions_

the table invites
an elbow
sharp and red
having bends
both are this way
being terminus
emblems lesser things

there a prop for a chin
inclined to heed
the sinking sun
and the stink of blood
now a dried stream
sticking two finger
together

may one

half a minute of snow
half way through may
have many questions
half of which
have no answer

gone out to seed

the hand casts grass
the rake takes time
to hack at the firmament
littler merchants tossed
selling whats greener
this side of the fence

swallaws

with clouds above them
even with the moon
so far they swoop
 

again rain

all on the lawn
the rain fills the dirt
no one more neon
than the noon grass
grown higher since last
wednesday and despite it
or to spite it perhaps
the sparrows chirp
and the robin
makes busy work
yanking worms up in
a tug of war
with the earth

april showers

alternate of mud
not on this day
from the sun
the lake risen
northern exposure
barely new leafs
jade green peek
listening to drips

hardcore jollies

coming accross the lake
riding two white seagulls
floating in your drink
a special interest group
of hydra and prokaryotes
thee I sing

monday : why

now that tuesday in drab burlap
sacks for clothes including
has broken the reins and reduced
the fraction plane where divisor
and divisible play with our gains

on the corona

the shadow the apple
tree catches along
with a cartwheel
full of sparrows
the occasional
arrow of red
lands and tracks
north to south
written in the colour
grass is known for

sunday: why

an early sun
primitive light
showing worms
slugs and snails
where to hide

on belgians

the belgians the belgians
the belgians all bad news
how bad could they be
real bad real bad bad
as a heavy wine stain
on satin linen
or a belgian on a river
a river not yet damned
they cry don't throw us in
we shant deserve the comparison
with the demons and lepers etc
but we know the truth
by now the pearly gates
have hung a sign

visions_versions_s7

since four or so
oclock eyes seeing
things blooms vagrants
leafy grotesqueries
and vacant bugs
with lots of shell
and little wings
flying into sight

on cutting

told these arms to
hold then toss
the hammer rises
black meteor
heart meters
out sweat
drop and split

visions_versions_ash

over on the next block
twenty two cuts
and this morning
loaded in the back
hearse like black
car and saw

a parable

robin isn't red yet
robin isn't well read
robin is cross walk boss
robin is all accross
robin spits caustic
robin hedges bets
robin gets yet
robin early bird
robin winds up
robin at the bat
robin strikes out
robin loses worm
robin on the dole
robin covid sole

visions_versions_pm

pewter clouds depending
upon the evening
a gradient a passing
of eyes over heaven

snow in april

cardinals and the less
handsome birds crowd
around the red feeder
forming almost a corona
above of feathers
creating breeze a blur
for bleary eyes

fifty and partly cloudy

face up in the bullrushes
laid out with the best of them
the sun can find and make me
black with red wings birds
and grackles too
and sometimes wood ducks
breaking the air into two
the peepers keep their silence
a minute and resume
their list lists longing
over the edge of the earth
rain looms

frog

Here we are right here at the end where the end meets the beginning.  They say that the end justifies the mean and that is true for the end is really an all, an average, where the start is measured up at the finish.  And everything must end.  There comes a time when one must say finally, "Stop! this is it! leave me here on this rock with these other frogs! I have been stepped on and swum too far and been swallowed by this heron and have been frozen and unthawed again and again and this is too much this time.  This is the sum!  I am done!"  And that is fine.  One must respect oneself and thus one must respect that. The fortitude of the frog to face day in and day out a world that made sense for millions of years and no longer continues to is immense and one should not expect for anyone who has been the same for eons to have to accept that always will be less than different than all of everything up until now.  One must say, and mean it too! "Good work frog, we recognize your commitment and resolve and decision to stop being a frog.  We wish we had the same humble attire and could of ourselves say, also, yes, I too learned how to swim and how to turn my tail into a pair of legs and learn how to breath through lungs and to turn my gills outside in and to really amount to something in life as you have done, Herr Frog."  Then one could march down to the main drag and with a feathered pen put their preferred nom de plume down on an expired check and select the three columned trophy with the gilt plastic rocket launching off into the great unknown from a rectangular cold block of italian marble and ask the old ex-con proprietor to please scribe an epitaph worthy of a napoleon, a hannibal, a ghandi, on a plate of the finest brass and one could march back to the frog and make a short speech as outlined.  That would really justify the end and mean a lot.

visions_versions_fog

its nasty and
looks like a cloud
out there
the vapour envelopes
a sinister letter
extra alphabet
a variable not
defined yet

nathanial hale

would old nathan hale get up
and get the axe and saw
to fall and split the tree
the green all gone
black against the sun
and under the sky
as tall as night tomorrow
that yesterday they said
would on a bough find
him high and dry?

burr oak

and at every one I
swung down on
like the all the sun
beating out the red blood
from the heart branches
sawed and splintered
now neat in piles
waiting to return
as hot as I am now

on canoes again

The greatness of a canoe is measured by her spot at the dock.  The favoured boats stay out front in the calm and in the lees when the waves roll down the sound.  Of them all, the Princecraft has to be the best.  The aluminum has aged into a fine battleship grey and the interior powder blue is classic and timeless.  With the sharpest welded seam prow and a tacked keel, she tracks well despite having relatively high gunwhales for the wind to buffet.  And the rise of the stem lets her cut through some serious chop like a gem.  That soft double chine adds to the effective beam when loaded down and she becomes even more stable.  Alone, floating, in a dead calm, the Princecraft almost isn't touching the water at all.  Like magic.  

Every morning when I wake up that canoe is the first thing I think about.  When I get home I will grab the fishing pole and place the rock in the bow and take the storm paddle and head out onto the river.  Don't look for me at the breakfast table.

visions_versions__d__

if the
wind blows a
nest from a tree
the flight path sticks
on their own will take
to level become ground
asterix lighting strikes again
dumb lids descended even then
over ever all that stood has gone
and what decision is not one wrong

and didnt it rain

the rain blasted the yard all night into mud and the little craters as if the lufftwaffe flew over and over and over and knocked on the window even and dropped the entire arsenal at random remained when the sun came out.  even there in my bed under three wool blankets with my eyes closed the flashes showed me the meaning of ultra violence written large written into the very everything that the earth is and always was and always will be.  and it comes as no surprise that in the light of day even the squirrel will get up the gall and go after the rabbit. so i step out in sandles made from dead steers and from the bark stripped from a tree now left in the spanish coastlines influence naked to the gibralterer's gaze and out into the yard.  the yellow flowers and the blue flowers are closed up because everything is closed these days by order of the illustrious leaders.  the steps are wet and gritty with debris.  from the sidewalk i can see the smoke billowing from the chimney and smell it too.

waterproofs

the forks are all washed
and with my
fingers grab
the ziti
and watch the water
fall off 

the plains of spain

a hand in the clock 

is worth two in the pocket

the ticking the winding

who needs that

these trying times

dont fit so well on

a century of american

gloating and bloat

even though the numerals

arent roman any more 

doesnt subtract from the sum

what isnt done is dumb

afloat

almost as soon as we get out there the waves try to drown us.  they despise us. and our efforts to crawl around the headland like a bunch of australians escaping the sinking prison and the stinking crocodiles in the sorry moat and they lash and stuff the very ends of the water the tops of the waves down our throats.  and they lie about why.  that is the worst of it.  the waves roll and foam and they pitch and throw and we swing and always keep trying to keep from being missing and to keep course of course.  maybe that it is that the water envies the wind so much more fluid and so much more useful to the birds (except penguins, cormorants, loons, gooses, ducks, pelicans, ospereys, kingfishers, ibis, herns, terns) is why the medium is lacking a message less than in all instances menacing always.  spraying rainbows or black and gold under the moon or in the tinsel of december.  and the closest the water got to getting me was when they saw a channel cat and went after that and left me standing on the top of the spear pinning a big large mouth bass to the bottom of the river and the waves tossed into the snorkel and it was a miracle in the end.  the devout ask where the miracles are all these days and let them point at me swimming around some more.

semaphores

in which aisle is
the martyr
who has the gold
egg
in the carton casting
an effervescent hope
onto the other legs
that will never grow

the people light up outside
inside they line up
in a semblance of one
this is america after all
for isn't that the scheme
con one con all con all you can

splinters of the true cross

a sliver of the husk
an onions characteristics
so like a christian's hell
in layers and the outer most
is dead and under your skin
a totem prized from the earth

constants

a congregation about
a thousand yards out
but discernible as gulls

floating on their pride
immutable

hannibal on cyrus on the alps

out on the ice the breeze takes on a particular murderous and absent minded look.  the noises of the town are as far away as the open water.  the growing pains of the ice announce the time of day.  it is cold and my skates make the wind rise to the occasion to burn my nose and bite my ears and start my eyes into fountains.  this is how hannibal felt crossing the alps on the back of an elephant perhaps named cyrus. seeing the ice hang from eyelashes and watching the sun shine hang there in an agony of imploding hydrogen into helium from right here in this vaccuum of a january noon that he didn't turn back is something that i completely understand.  out there on the ice there is a feeling that there could be no where more cold and that it isn't going to get colder and that i need to keep moving and that the alps are high but its all downhill from here.  down there is roman baths. 

whence the wind

When the wind cleared the sky of all the junk bonds and brokered deals, finally we could see and see far and far enough to step safely off the front porch or through the back door or what have you got.  In one bounding leap would I make the back of the yard and stopping before the tower of split and nearly perfectly stacked silver maple and yellow hard fruit tree would I turn on a muddy heal and plant my toes into the ground where in another couple weeks some orchard of all that is implicitly great in the world would be growing and throw my weight back forward to the other yard out front effectively being in both of them at the same time like a phonon in the ballistic regime where heat isnt merely trasnferred but is really truly felt. 

on paths

steps into the street leaving
mud lingering in treads
an epidemic of the thaw
economics personified
what was wrought is wrung
what was wreath is wrack

its spring again

hardly and far from
the madness of the earth
but bursting forth
nonetheless is one
yellow flower
the emblem
spring
again
 

out there

here on the frontier
and there twice
warm according
to the early bird ben
franklin who said of i
splitting wood mincing words

oak logs

singing in the rare sun
throwing the eight pound
limber in the heat
feeling the future burn

visions_versions_be

as strict as the cardinal
isnt with the top of the tree
the bee is with the sun's dial
the indicator far from burn
the spin of our earth lunges
into spring into and out of
the clutches of most
of moths and the listless
the flyers lining up
from today to the day
they die

fleurs

asking whats up
the land sends us
short lists of green
things peakaboo it seems
hinges leaf springs
bringing for the forseeable future
eyes into the light
eventually nice

on solid ground

tracing the frost line
to the horizon that time
fine as the sun rise

on green oak

the wedges sit and sink
from one to four or so
until the fifth flies down
and they jump back
into my hand again

on wind

starboard larboard
port tack to harbor
the waves pitch
the knees list
fish tryst
in this

on sun

on a sunny day the key
to thinking is to think
like a king stinks
of fish and drinks

out there

take the canoe for scale
the wood piles up to the bow
like busted ice in april
or breaking white caps
spending time in my eyes
cold hands dipping into lows
holding on to the crest hello

this yard is a pen
and the river is far from when

feb_fisher

there the fishers sat
and pondered
as evident in the snow flat
as wide as their fat ass
is the thoughts of ppines climbing
blind to the leaps and bounds
found out behind
those cutthroat and fine
black eyes all the ridges wide

there they go

over the snow and some
under in steps summed up
the even numbers of feet
add to that mine

goldenrods

inefficient is the wind
insufficient is the seed
at leaving the crevices
where on goldenrods
all whats next is known

Next morning I will, after I wake up, shake the coffee cup to my eyes and drink up the sun and venture outside to feel the miles reaching out as far as they have been ever and ending here at my skin and ultimately my mind.  Then I will look at the broken goldenrods and finish their work.  What works best is to break them off at the extremity and walk around to the soft spots in the yard and knock them against my leg to get them all to let go.

on oak

reciprocating away into the pile
the swedish steel squeals
and like so many times
above what a beaver loves
the wood yields next year
and todays heat nearer
the arms the heart

on snow

under the snow does
the grass grow
or is it that the
green lacks
everything that
belongs to those
who are in the know

Tomorrow is to be sunny and fourty and unusual for february.  And unused to it as I may be I may be unusual too.  And tomorrow when the sun ticks up to the clock and shows a hand full of bluff and bluster then and only then will I fall down into the remnants and make a make or break decision.  Then the truth.  There the crux.  Onto whos shoulders but mine must the sun dump a whole eternity if not the green green grass on the other side of the fence that we will never know?

visions_versions_lopi

opening the flue to let
the rising flames rip
right as the cold sets
overnight on the coast

litmus

the water touches up
the ice with brushes
bunches of passes
lists of the last
chances to fall in
simmer in the frigid minutes
clamber till digits
shiver rigid with
the great gull pretender
solid white on silver ice

even if i do

even if i do
cook all the dinner
in one pot
even if i do
eat all the dinner
out one pot
even if i do
use a silver fork
even if i do
those things you say
even if i do
still at dinner
a man of the people
even if i do
use a silver fork

 

on blitzen

believe me or believe me
not what the singular
sun lacks whilst
imbued with elements
light and plentiful
is a hefty sense
of responsibility

today the clouds expired
for a moment
and at then when that was
the singular source
of true emissivity
lit up the alley
and shone on those
broken shells left behind
caskets made perfect
for the photons
final resting place

at the window

each seed a sparrow
each sees and seizes
leading edge trailing
wing tip vortices
infinites in the breeze

visions_versions_walks

something about it
gets into my socks
having kicked up
with no luck

downhill descents

the stairs take to
their natural shape
ramping up a tendency
towards ramps and slides
dips and turns reminiscent
only to the skeletoner
bobsledder and lugee

visions_versions_DLB

the low  birds have changed
schedules left guessing
pondering over shells
in footsteps fourty days
ago old collecting
hands outwards
always turning

visions_versions_ends

like the fish on
my dinner plate
will upon
my demise I
flake into planes
adhered to teeth
either minuscule
or as mine
now replete

vision version e b b

with nothing but a frog to chew on the otter assumes all is not wrong all is over all is above all great and onto the ice to scratch out in the morning at eight oclock

out into the air the fresh scent of our perch over here of the skates and the gloves we wear to slide over to inspect to look for scats to determine the tracks to shake our heads and dig the otter who bides time by the rock the only rock so far as the eyes can say yes in eel bay to see the white underside of the otters chin ponder and the blackest nose there ever is to snort and condemn our lives our missives

later the day gets and the sun makes its own set with the haze that arises and grindstone minds

dawn was prudent purple pursue a greater cause propose a greeting to launch at the other ones who come after

we slip we slide we deign to estimate our chances always mistaking fortune for folly

vision_version_o

the final rock eel bay has
to offer to an otter
though so deep
warm enough
to melt out
below

visions versions shangrila

one foot into the water and the mud took to pulling at the heel at each step picking up a fraught slack and looking each few hundred yards for ticks the farther into the cattails that denote a swamps lost of beavers left over fields and stickers with a pretense to colonize the new turf and here we walk, stopping ever so often to take in the soft sky and the farther reaches of pines on the ridges either side

the logs topple and rot
while some do not
and of the toughest rocks
too the moss most are lost

visions_versions_red

each cardinal reaches into
the bushes and pleads
and to no avail completely
misunderstood by the
one esteemed sun

Pointe Saint-Charles

arrived again in the point
at the apex at the tracks
with the sidewalks strewn
with rocks in my shoes
walking through bisects
where skeletons sat
and cats in alleys ply
and pretend not to know
me and my lines at times

visions_versions_w0

winter limits the vision
black sticks
with prisms stack
hands and fingers bitten
absent birds listen
the ice booms and cracks