Poetry

Today the prayer is words I can't yet find, words that flit away like spring juncos, like chickadees.

And if we speak at all, let's speak in mountain, speak in field ...

Ages ago I left a small town life searching for something I lost wandering in confining predictability.

To live all hands on deck asks for palms cut by rope cleaned by salt splintered purpose filled.

You, oh carob, were his food though men confuse Mark and Matthew's akrides (locust-the bean) with locust the bug.

I want to know how it happened how the bindle's gold was spent or stolen by winking friends or women or men whose tongues and strokes upon your hairless shoulder made you think this is forever

At the ocean, I see the waves advance and retreat, endless armies of blue desire.

Like moths attracted to the light, we swarm together, drawn to warm, the solace of some company.

I pull myself onto his lap, curl up as glass melts into flesh, lead pulses with blood, and the cold flat surface warms and swells.