“where summer’s bronzes dull and sink”

the trees are like
wet coat hangers,
holding up the leaves,

my cat is frosty like
an october morn,
sleeping on the sill,

everything is dripping
like a wet pair of
jeans taken out of the wash,

the sky wears its greys
of cloud, dim and dramatic
it opens summer eyes.

the forests of sun
lift their branches to the sky -
a stone fountain's tears.

Nature's memory

  The soil touches your feet.  Heaven below. As the sky and winds play with your hair. Heaven above. Voices of leaves rustle their poems. The memory of you is not so far away.  As nature has never forgotten you even one thousand dreams away.

Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.

Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.

the stream is a pretty
mirror, the sky, sweet
sister to the moon,
slumbers in her
arbour where roses
flower mightily, in
love with the night
and the cloud.

"where night is...the integrity
of the voyaging star..."


will flowers blossom soon in this
nearby petal-edged spring? the day

is full of buds, the night carries its ghosts,
the night-lily singing of magnolia and cloud.


in the sweet-breathed sky
the silver stars are like tiny pins,

my love is carved in their reflections,
i see his face in their waters,


our love still lasts, scented like the spring,
promising each other the ghosts of forever,

i could never let him go and now he says
he wants to die by the sea, in my arms,


and we create a new dream, out of night's
shadows, a new beginning before the new end

for all our love and all our hate.
i lie numbed or over-joyed seeking


his tenderness in every crevis waiting
for the kind word, the gentle kiss.

sometimes he gives me love, sometimes his hate -
how tired the world, its hidden ghosts


soaking in the rain, the clouds subdued,
the poem built of the night's sweet edge

enamel-glazed, hypnotic like the stars.
how tired the world- how empty-


and how the poetry spins like a top, full
of the dark sky, the sad farewell,

the pretty ghost.