Ukiyo-e

Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge

bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn

at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint

screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image

a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas

a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave

reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting

in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.

Winter

On a beach last summer between
Munising and Grand Marais
a glitch in the space-time continuum
a case of Someone dropping the ball
rent a nasty tear in the firmament
a real doozy I would have missed
but for the high voltage bite of a stable fly
that wrenched me into the letter Z
upended the blue horizon long enough
to catch a glimpse of winter
gunmetal grey behind summers
drooping curtain, a fluke of nature
like the platypus
like a knuckleballer  
like improvisational jazz
but I still pause in warm April rain  
beneath golden autumn leaves
while pressing a beaded bottle of beer
to the scar on my neck
hot July afternoons and listen
for the icy bite of my name
a faint rhythm
building to crescendo.

We Implore

How in Your name do You do it  
night and day, day and night,
weather the whiteout of words,

scribble of mother tongue
uttered under the breath,
those heart rending howls

packing power enough to jolt
the odd celestial cat nap,
hunt You down holed up

under alias, disguised
at the wispy tip of some
far flung finger of cloud,

or, as I like to picture it,
sitting at a light draped
in a pearlescent Lincoln MKZ

with tinted windows, elbow
on the console, following
the approach of a pilgrim

brandishing a hand lettered
sign like the relic of a martyr,
silently praying for the green.

We Implore

How in Your name do you do it?  
Night and day, day and night,
a whiteout of words,

scribble of mother tongue
uttered beneath the breath,
those rending howls

packing power enough to jolt
the odd celestial cat nap,
find You holed up under alias

disguised at the wispy tip
of some far flung finger of cloud,
or sitting at the light

in a pearlescent Lincoln MKZ
with tinted windows, leaning
slightly to midline tracking

the approach of a woman brandishing
a hand lettered sign like the relic of a martyr,
praying for the light to change.

Rainy Spring Morning

Rainy spring morning is older now
slower, less inclined to bound
up the down staircase or greet
dawn with a drop jaw slap
to the forehead, night
somehow no longer young, drinking
whole days in breathless gulps from a pail
knobby throat exposed, bobbing
lewd and naked, heedless
of a sopping shirt, unaware
exactly when he took to sipping primly
from the lip of the minute cup
a careful hand cupped to a careless chin
catching the gesture
in the window
above the sink
beneath the sleeve
of light that smears charcoal features
and quotes from windows past
the glow that drew him
on his way to school
tucked back in the shadow of huddled
trees, new leaves sluicing rain in whispers
onto the backs of sidewalk worms.  
Rainy spring morning twists the band
on his cudgel finger
mate to the one you wear
dialing in this hypnotic spell of molten gold
a boy for a moment  
lingering in front of a house
upturned palm catching creamy light
that runs through his fingers
and pools around his half buckled boots.

Rain, Steam and Speed-The Great Western Railway
(J. M. W. Turner)

Life between the rails
Price paid for rhythm
Working its way
Into the conversation we have
With the couple from Kamloops
Over drinks in the bar car
Elongated shadows of stem ware
Clocking snow white prairie  
Dotted with one stoplight words
Nothing more
Than a few boarded up syllables
Struggling vowels of a diner
Slash package store
Emphatic final
Consonants of grain elevators
Trailing off into long stretches of silence
Stealing glimpses of the future
On grand sweeping curves
While the past rifles
Our pockets on the perfect
Parallel track of the here and now.

Stem

Let them flare against saucer blue skies
School on biting wind, rattle bones to ward  
Off waves that claw the breadth of reach

West of Spray Falls, drunk on summer liquor
Flush and masked for a night to remember
Letting go beyond them, my final act a mercy.