Beneath a sweat-stained couch there's shame, there's spare change.
Above is cocoa butter, tangled between
their legs. A love touched tongue and thigh, and Mom's chain
of gold and something better: a cross's gleam.

When wont I stare. Waists unburdened by jean lines.
Some spare change rattles in the pockets of mine.
Biting my tongue: my canker-sore-cheek teeth grind.
Knuckles popping to match sounds of supine spines.

Gusts of wind whistle,
Spiraling by cracked windows,
Sprinkling rain on screens.

This morning the horizon
was shortened with fog
and then it rained.

The trees are mulched in
without low branches
and mathematically
encircle a small stage.

Knee high boulders
are scattered about,
probably serving as seats.
The benches are accents.

If they were anywhere else
I could see moss growing
on these rocks.

My room, painted pink
By filtered light and pollen
Breathes better than me.

The grass is greening
Begins every Spring Haiku.
Daffodils bloom too.

Dew and birdsong
are two of the words
that came to mind
when I woke up blind
to clouded sun
slivers through slits
of the parted shades
following fits
of fruitless sleep.

The wetly kissed paths
with lines of living
or withered grass
and robin cardinal
whistle, hopping
limb to branch
wondering if walking
isn't so bad though
I've never been on a plane.

I would have seen
the sunrise this morning
but clouds and trees
obscured my yawning
eyes and so did
the crows, staccatos
in skies that are really
pretty pretty anyway.

On white walls washed primrose,
candy wrapper leaves crinkle
behind the cloying shadow sweets
left by a breeze almost too quiet to remember.



Look past the prairie,
now smoldering cornfield wastes
of salted soil sewn from our own brows;
the only prerequisite is wide-eyed naïvety
to catch a glimpse
of the shaky-handed painter's brushstroke of trees
on a river aptly named "Skunk.

In the space between closer to and closer than home,
cicada songs join an aspen’s fluttering percussion
to usher in the twilight
while flipping the switch
on a childish soapbox.



On white walls washed indigo,
the final murmur of a hair-raising breeze
ties and pulls the puppeteer's strings on spindly trees
in a dying evening’s darkening dance.