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