When the fence was finished
and properly white washed
he wrote TRUTH
all in large block white.
on his side
that faced the street.

The next day, his neighbor
of many years,
of which he knew
only through casual hellos,
painted (in bleeding red)
TREASON on his.  

“God Save America,” the first thought ,
“from this POS” as he drove  his  EV to work,
content knowing he had his neighbor all figured out.
The neighbor thought the same as he passed him
in his POS  Ford— the one he inherited from his father-
the one with the  fender cracks held  together
with $ store American. flag  bumper stickers.

Under the bardo of the sheltering sky
mist and fog cleave earth from heaven.
The green  liminal land  abscission’s itself-
shivering swallows from boughs,
causing the wiltering river reed
to bend away from the first frazil ice—
and the grazing horse to return to hay by
following the frosting road back to the barn.

The fifth season has arrived,
sneaking in between summer and fall,
changing everything green to yellow,
then to fire and ash—
suspending earth and air until
nature decides the next breath.


bardo:  (in Tibetan Buddhism) a state of existence between death and rebirth, varying in length according to a person's conduct in life and manner of, or age at, death.

Liminal:  Liminal space is the uncertain transition between where you've been and where you're going physically, emotionally, or metaphorically.

abscission:   the natural detachment of parts of a plant, typically dead leaves and ripe fruit.

Frazil:  soft or amorphous ice formed by the accumulation of ice crystals in water that is too turbulent to freeze solid.

I wander through this secret city
mapped in the words we only know,
and we can only define.
I am the citizen of you
and you of me.

Everyone we know drives bye,
their cars filled
with everything we own
flying out the window.

The next vanishes
into the mist
beyond  the curb
of what we once were.
Or, is it, will be?

Where they went,
we know.
Where they’re going,
we know.

Our eyes and ears
want to follow,
it’s so bright and loud
and hard to hold inside,
even in all the shooting.

She remembers
when the light
was filled
with silent ghosts.  
They would flicker in and out
in the cigarette smoke  
of the theater,  
each frame
an ashy wisp,
a burnt offering.
The story spooling out
in the air
was a familiar one.
The  sentiment
caught in her heart
and  made her cry.  
  
Years later,  
she went back,
after the smoke
was banned
and only the light
was permitted to filter.
The ghosts  
talked to her, now-
but it was no longer
a sacred thing.
There were profane words
and the noise hurt her ears.
In this night  light  
there were no  
familiar family faces.
Everything was clear,  
startling new and strange
and all the colors
too bright  for her eyes
to bear.
And it was then
she knew
she would die
in this nightmare dream.

When I was a child light shone
angels through my fingers
crowning my parents’ faces,
blessing the simple tasks of theirs:
table setting, pouring water—
how it lit the world in my upturned smile
and flowed through as I grew
and how it followed me home
and stayed, even in the dark.

Light was the water, earth,
reflecting off every animal,
every street, everything I touched—
the light always ahead,
the darkness, just softly behind
—doubts, questions, thoughts—
light, enlightening the dark words
of my mind and mouth.

And when the darkness caught up,  
and I watched my parents fall behind,
my body/smile down-turn to groan
and my thoughts and words
turn to memories— I realized how
the past was always near and how
grief turned everything to light.

Its leaves fold,curl in
Their grip yields to the cold wind
The elm knows their loss

He knows how to observe the heron
in the twilight’s lonely inclusion-
this blue dream that could vanish
in flight if drawn too near—
head, eyes, ears pulled forward
following the flow of fish ahead
until it vanishes from his sight
behind a screen of slender reeds.