You’ve put leaves in piles
with ceaseless breath—
before, they were green
and dilated. I think they
knew they had to fall.

I’ve seen the grayed walks
lie under milkfoams of
fog you spear with flits
of once-in-a-while rain, as
Jupiter swallows comets.

You wrap birds in tight
black coats, slimming
their feathers. You don’t
let them speak. A dim
shadow is uncovered.

I find sheets over me,
all white or all sky blue—
remembering how clean
the cool dryness feels
and rustling in the wind.

I wrote you each August,
asking you to break the
tall, thick clouds into flat,
cold floes that vanish when
the sun vaults over them.

You bring your cool moon,
and it slides over my skin
from head to heel or hand
to hand. Cicadas feel it,
too. Like medicine on a cut.

I typically pause, let silent
vowels swallow the air
peeking around the curtain,
and until we feel fresher
by it, crisped, I stay still.

You test the leaves one,
two nights pulling with open
hands; I remember ice,
shattered on the pavement
and spread thin, whitens.

les c'est
c'est les

autre autre

c'est les autres

c'est c'est
autres c'est autres les
c'est
les les
les

You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!

Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!

Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!

You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!

I steady an umbrella
over your damp back
putting in the rain

divided raindrops flit
past the edges
drops cool my hands

rolling ball kicks drops
up from the soggy turf
into an unseen pool

traps, pools, streams
all dry for the fall
slick with dust and rain

I leave you in the dust
13 strokes on hole 12
waiting on a wet stump

an ego wet with winning
but all is small here
I return this half-pencil

Thin and sober, like
evening air,

Le Freak brings its
benign curiosity

To her lips, some
Belgian monk

At a waffle press;
a meteor explodes

In the sky. A sent-
ient gas hovers

Cautiously, then ex-
plores the dim

Recess of my lungs.
Or it glows green,

Then vanishes. It’s
an aggressive brew.

And God bless Amer-
ica for its hop.

That’s something I
haven’t heard in a

While. It latches on
and holds its breath

Like it holds its
head. White and

Swollen, like you’d
expect.

It trippels on its
laces, and then I

Said: “My twos are
unshied” and I

Meant it. I grabbed
the bottle instead

Of the glass. Looks
like it only takes

Me two to get un-
shied these days.

Old man's
old man's
old man
mixes

one part coffee,
one part port,
in bottles marked
Sun. through Sat.

No words for
the grandkids
who split
from

the cast-iron stove
with wood
for warmth
and coal
for cooking,
up

the
skinny,
shoddy
steps
to

the cold, black
room
and six-quilt
beds
while he

sipped his
cocktail
by the
burning barrel
all night.

And what if
one of them
woke and peered
into some dark
corner

and saw
the small
red specter
of a hand-rolled
cigarette
blinking back?