shore slips tangent
once each turn
and life pivots
on blade’s pull

from age’s widened spiral
we watch to find
another oar

uncertain
how to circle
back to land

Fibonacci Series

their bodies,
more suggestion than shape,
stretch then swell,
trailing slime
on sidewalks,

an eternity
of space to cross
from grass to grass.

one,
then another
and another
undefine themselves,
wet antennae testing
air and sun,

shells slung on backs.
calcium calculations curling
ever inward.

old age arrives**

old age arrives
in a plain, brown box,
prepaid and taped
against intrusion.

loosely packed,
it rattles
in the handling,
invites curiosity and

with no return address
suggests
opening.

(trying to write away this heat)*

squirrel solstice

squirrels curled
in maple nests
are promises
built of acorns and seeds.

bunched in sleep,
they await the snow
that comes after night fall.

whisker twitching
twenty feet up,
squirrel dreams occupy trees.


        in monochrome season
        those gray and black bundles
        brush snow from limbs
        and punctuate the sky.

a dream of fantastic horses**

there were red horses.
white horses and spotted
horses.  horses so black
they shimmered crow-like
in the morning.

pouring across
the plains of sleep,
thunder horses,
lightning horses,
horses swimming in floods,
dying in deserts.
horses wading withers
deep in snow.

knife-hooved,
prarie-eyed,
mountain-thighed

memory horses,
lathered up unsaddled,
strung out like ribbons in the wind.

gun squad

we were death
wandering the hills.

pieces of puzzles
out of time and place.

we were worlds lost
beyond
sound and sense,

stumblings on ridge lines
looking for something
to ****.


        we were empty-eyed
        birds of prey,

        locked to earth
        under the weight of packs
        and guns
        and ammunition,

        trying to find wings
        that would fly us home.

Fibonacci Sequence
            (after a photograph of snails)

their bodies,
more suggestion than shape,
stretch then swell,
trailing slime
on sidewalks,

an eternity
of space to cross
from grass to grass.

one,
then another
and another
undefine themselves,
wet antennae testing
air and sun,

shells slung on backs.
calcium calculations curling
ever inward.

Christmas 1968

the whole hospital hurt.
my bed hugged a corner
and the ward ached
away from me.
endlessly away.

I remember Nurse Merz,
who saved my leg,
and Fender,
who lost his.
mine was a small world.

we had clean sheets.
no one wanted to **** us
at night.
it was Christmas.

after rounds,
the medics
brought us shots of whiskey
in dosage cups.

far away to the south,
the hills
were swallowing people up.

I almost slept
without dreaming.

                              
                             (106th. Army Evacuation Hospital
                              Kishine Barracks
                              Yokohama, Japan)

memory sleeps
beneath time’s blanket,
closes its eyes,
and disappears in dream.

life is leveled, edges beveled
smooth and regular.
days pass.

thirty-seven years later
a helicopter is shot down
in Afghanistan.

men are lost

and fear chokes me
again, high above hills and jungle,
taking fire from below,
a Chinook just like theirs,
frantic to fly
away.

1.
a woman’s laughter
unravels any plan.

2.
a woman
naked in the dark
cannot be explained.

3.
a woman’s hands
possess magic

4.
a woman *******
moves like water
over stones.

5.
a woman
with her eyes closed
changes a man.

6.
a woman
with her eyes open
changes a man.

7.
in the winter
a woman’s hair
is softer than snow.

8.
a woman
in flowered pajamas
doesn’t need words.

night
under jungle canopy
was dark as a cave.

at twilight
you crept
two hundred meters out
from the perimeter.

you and another.
the radio,
two claymore mines,
M-16s-three clips each-

half a dozen grenades,
pop-up flares,
and four canteens of water.
fear fed thirst.

you opened two packets
of instant coffee,
spilled them into your mouth,
washed them down,
and felt your head jitter
all night long.

there was always sound.

jungle rats or snakes,
maybe even tigers,
or NVA probing the lines.

if there were many of them,
you sent up the flares,
fired into the dark,
detonated the claymores,

and were the first to die.

(I was M-60 machine gunner with the Ninth Marines in South                
                  Vietnam, 1968.    LP is a military acronym for ’listening post.’ )

lifetimes ago
the lakes froze shut.

the falls stopped.
wind blew backwards
and snow boiled up from trees.

it was too cold
for travel,
despite the belief
in winter passages.

great difficulties
presented themselves.

it was said
that birds froze
in the air,
but no one knows.

records were not kept.