How It Is In Winter
stand with me this is a creeping snow
out of season peaches, men eaten by hats
snow strikes gutter the maples
my hand
meets the hair of the plain
the mind arrays its coat
a man in coltskins coffee
by the neon
the dump smells
chuck, good times
the koans are bright
ash leaves, this earth
come to me, peasant mendicant if you cut your nails short you can’t
govern heaven’s hem
I like the sound of your longer words
the tingle of a hand scarred
breath comes
drawn fast
filigreed cilia, the blackbird
yes here it is wrings
the potential spring of a bulrush
and shuttled there and back in a derecho
titmice yield to the dipper hooping
I once witnessed death from the sky
a squirrel plummeted believe it
corn, lend hands
anchor the field
a solitary
lily needs to gasp