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what we saw

seamed by two am blue radio
analogue purpose beauty enough
like early magnolia reach
child mother stagger
refinery flame
this seated organism
all night-blind before intent
will in moments touch morning
mystery of forward motion
for the still kind
fair swap on the reason day line
no other time you know
seeing her is like a dream
only better at not yet a thing
not stream
blue radio numbers dog sense
so far with this logic swim in love
porpoise words to mirror surface
above below above
as we go we rhyme
thought to sense
light to time
radio numbers said
to memory of stuff
no dream ever mislaid
purely sitting on the bedspread cuff
still completely lost the while
more or less or more
than less without knowing what we saw
as certain as a smile

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Christmas 2018

for Cathy

Where is that crow going?
Same place as us.
Look at it rowing
Between a slog and a swallow.
Once heard it groaning
Now it fills the expanse
Mirror black where the oil spill was
Speck of midnight at noon
A little storm in the blue
No reminder of awful death,
My love, sweet shade in the belting sun
Soft dusk two words two words two words
All the murder soft-loud following-joining
Slowing the progress of twilight.
So we’re going the way of that crow my love
So the oceans are filling
With trivia
So bad men do great
While good women groan
So the trial of God secret
And appealed
So I am unkind—
Call low-hard soft-loud to your murder
From our crooks above the creek bend
Hunched and bright dark
We’ll answer.

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Winter Solstice 2018: Ya Boo Sucks

If life gives you lemons fuck lemonade
All that sugar—just suck.
Find yourself winded on the kitchen floor
Don’t get up, lie a while and feel the dirt
Check your bits why don’t you
Consider
Giving up whatever knocked you down
Thank your stars for arms and legs
And move on—but not just yet
Where’s the hurry to do?
This is not wallowing.
If you’re humble about your failure—
Anybody could have done it
Shit just chose you—
Every now and again
Fail gloriously.
Bless and be still.

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Time for a Good Hot Cuppa

Sleeplessness is awful
Insomnia is worse.
Dreaming of pomegranates
Left on our porch
Only to find they’re real—
Or did our porch dream them?
Why not bathe in cool tea
Instead of drinking your shame
All alongside the night?
Find our neighbour left the fruit
But still give credit to the porch:
Bathing in reality is not entirely sweet.
I shall run toward my story
After market, after poetry.
Now, where is that strainer?