Apart from other
children on the playground this
one paces and turns,

creating a space.
The poet also counts off
the square of being.

The world is one, the
imagination and the will
three, ; the child pauses,

looks across the yard.
Screams and laughter flood the fourth
side. He starts over.

Crow’s Delight

The crow shines on the
dewy street, black radiance,
then flies off, I don’t

care where. No sign here
of any parousia.
Not Dante’s eagle

of empire, not our
being as such, just delight
in its throaty cry.


Walking along, ab-
sorbed by the rainy lights as
I stepped off the curb,

the bottom dropped a-
way, there was just a splash and
a sense of nonsense.

That feeling or lack
of feeling recalled Dante
on being’s excess.

To Start With

My human will, though
strong as ever — how tightly
I lace these new boots —

is not enough with
you gone. I know difference,
before and after.

Sameness is not the
same. To call your name is to
break faith with being.

Start here, then; old ha-
bits of prayer fly apart
in the fertile void.

Public Works

Public Works! Public
Works! And your loud leaf blower
this windy fall day,

just doing your job
in your day-glow vest brighter
than the whirling leaves.

That thing on your back
pathetic in the over-
head roar of the trees.

Beyond Words

My well-cushioned chair
in the cafe, home away
from home. Bent over

a book, like Samuel
Johnson, my forehead touching
the page or almost.

Lost in the crowd, thank
God; lost in the words, not quite.
The room hums with words.

Beyond words, what gives?
Autumn foliage, clear skies,
light like rain showers.

Capital L

May I apply the
L-word for whatever re-
sources the mother

of that blind child draws
on making her comfortable?
Just the right-angle

“L” will do, the word
itself crippled by sentiment.
Once settled the child

joins the family,
vertical joining hori-
zontal, hinged, grounded.