Degas’s Shoulders

draw the eye
to rolling landscape

bald

above
blue tree line or
interrupted by
crenellated hedgerow
daubed with a satin butterfly

poised

to dry her wings
before clearing a rise
of clavicle
countryside set alight
where I wander
lost amid familiar landmarks.

Cake Lover

Icing peaks a pillowed top,
shingles this creamy carousel
layers press and oozing
awaiting my trailing finger.

I blow out your candles,
licking each one clean
to the wick, rising wishes
mingled with smoke.

Dirt Daubers

They float in and out all day
long on low interest wings
cramped toes of abodes
accreting like tamped syllables
compressed into lines, bellow
bad things about the mothers of their
fellows from laced lattice work
**** like champs in the bushes
hip sprung and hands free
while I ignore the noise and hunch
over muddy simile, worry
concentric rings of rhythm  
into pages of imperfect tubes
just waiting for habitation.

Tacking

Keel laid long ago, deck
where we stand at night
naming stars, worn salt
smooth and clocked
by the shadow of the mast
our ship trailing
veils of memory, smartly
parting swell, tacking
true from high up in the rigging
where I mend sails
with the thread of a tune
while you pitch
seams, humming
something old and familiar.

Wishbone

Holding things down
on my end, calibration
the name of the game
purchase gained and lost
longing for your exquisite
exertions palpable
the length of this delicate glyph
grace and menace
in equal measure
on display across the bight
floored by your gaze
play of three fingers against
your effortless pinch
my feigned contortions
leavened by a finning
hand to ward off
the snap of lesser wishes.

A Good Set of Bicycle Lights

Strap white to the handle bar
red to the seat post

of your worrisome bicycle
                         a fixed gear nightmare, these nighttime

streets lay in wait while I lay waiting to be pierced
by the call that never comes
with a bit of luck.

Old light from distant stars
at the edge of my
galaxy of fear

arrives as pinpricks of reminder
your new orbit free
                                of my nettlesome gravity.

A Good Set of Bicycle Lights

Strap white to the handle bar
                             red to the seat post

of your worrisome bicycle
                            a fixed gear nightmare, these nighttime

streets lay in wait while I lay waiting to be pierced
           by the call that never comes
       with a bit of luck.

Old light from distant stars
                       at the edge of my
                            galaxy of fear

arrives as pinpricks a reminder
                       your new orbit free
                                of my nettlesome gravity.