Dark, dangerous woods,
Phases of the flashing moon,
Turning heads of owl.

I do not envy the man about town,
The shackle suit and morning groom,
The campaign of papers and style,
Whose work a day is but a futile way
And each choice is ruin to the heart.

The pill shaped tables of the board rooms,
Where ink is blood and flesh is facsimile,
Caged in by the cubicle, lets in no breeze,
Only the still air of stifle, encased.
What dreams may die in this dullness  
Of days?
          There is a ringing that will not  
Cease.  There are stalls by the staples, there is  
No peace.  And time is warden either side  
Of the glass doors and with mercenary feet  
And closed eyes he makes his stand, he makes
His choice, he sets his gait, chimes in lock step,  
His voice is hoarse, and all his salary days  
Are trojan.  
  
        No, I do not relish the dog  
Eat dog, nor the barking toes that step so low,  
Even lower than the hangman's boom.  For like  
A slug crossing a busy street he does not fear  
The tread.  He does not know these sounds are clink.  
His thoughts are trapped in folders read, and with  
Mobile cells his ears are pinned and grating-micro-
Waves well cancer to his brain.

In the fall of light,
Trees turn to stone.

This time the sun removes,
Told in tales of the rise of moon.

Light winds rustle rusted leaves—
And a fur will soon be feathered in a bed.

And silence screeches as some flying bark embarks
And the very trees are hollowed in their grieves of the newly
Throrned, red, running rose— of the dearly claimed, arisen dead.

Simple clouds, clotting great blue sky,

Face of old, youthful man in mountain,

White headed, green warring with blue,

Winter trees having grown, all they can.

Death silences birds  .  .  .
In the plain, carryon fields,
  .  .  .  Crows flying in low.

.
Not fair— her dear swishing body,
The cling of shearing Indian cotton,
Cool nights of wine pouring shoddy,
Broken truths, laid to rest, forgotten.

Troubled waters rise—
Sands march, locust lost in maize,
Harvest moon sinking.

Love out of touch, we could not bare
Alone, with loosed arms overreaching
And love sparkled dancing,
On the breaking rim of a star,
Innocent and new under the constellations
Of the pinned gods' eyes.

We told ourselves the story of ourselves,
Each one, a penned, perfect fable,
Each one a journey into the dark,
Under the faint and rising milky ways,
Where even shadows, poor,
Are always, almost, lost.

Out of conception, and pining dream
And the myths we most want to make,
Out of dream, would we soon awaken?

This then is hope, a stroke, as we dressed,
Children spinning yarns below the stars,
Is the game, the game of let's pretend.

We would not bare, love out of touch.

Winter fantasia—
Wolves and loon moaning full moon,  
Snow white swans landing.