white winged water walker
filled my dreamy head
sliding, gliding on shimmering glass
far from my land locked bed

once a child and filled with awe
my visions shamelessly bold
a water walker I would be
and straw could turn to gold

but spinning orbs wash one with age
and weight one's wings with years
and flights of endless prowess
are grounded by groundless fears

yet when blind night blocks the light
and one's mind is allowed to explore
childhood's chirping vision
is again allowed to soar

the shelters were full
surely that is why I found her
in the alley

she was as old and white as time...
probably three score, at most, though curled up
like a babe in the womb

her eyes were yet open:
what had she seen last, what had
her last supper been?

and where were the disciples
with bread and wine, with body and blood
while she froze on the hard earth?

thumb frozen, ears red in the cold heat  
Interstate-25 apocalyptically empty, windless and mute
my northbound shoes the only sound
on the dull dawn’s ashen, soundless stage  
what other survivor of a sleepless rocky mountain night
would I encounter?  when would I see another face?  

the cars came with the sun as it struggled to make
white progress in a gray sky  
they passed me, again and again
like I was not there, or
little more than a faded billboard
they chose not to read  

when her brake lights came on,
a half mile down the road, I ran towards her
wondering if I had been an afterthought
a simple ambiguity
her black Porsche 911 backed up to meet me  
a turquoise covered hand opened the door
extended itself to me in the warm sea of air
in her tiny cabin, “Hi, I’m Myra”
“Denver?” I asked
“No, just the Springs, but we’ll see what he can do”  
and Myra and I flew by the cars that had passed me  
I gave each a haughty stare, those slower vessels
that had left me there, to freeze on a Colorado plain  

“Escaping” from Taos she said, from a bar
on Canyon Road, where “he” had turned on her,
spilled their sacred secrets like beer on the tavern floor  
she made her exit when he was in the john,
******* or puking, she knew not which,  now,
at 90 miles per hour with a stranger half her age  
she was spilling her own secrets into my eager ears
her black mini skirt, red skin tight sweater spoke to me  
as much as her words--she was there for the taking  
precious flesh ready for greedy consumption
her stone heavy hand touched my leg, punctuating her story  
with breathy exclamation points, plaintive question marks
and prescient pregnant  pauses, I wondered
where she would take me or if she would take me  
“Denver?” she asked, “Mind a little detour?”
it didn’t matter where, thumb time
is measured in miles, not minutes,
and Denver was as cold as the road
from which she plucked me    

her house was a wall of glass,
with Pikes Peak framed perfectly
by her bedroom window, and when  
we finally swam smoothly on the waves of her waterbed  
she cried out that all was beautiful again
now that she was home, in the shadow of her mountain
in the arms of a stranger, whose seed rolled down her leg
as she moved farther from the Taos tavern and
whatever truth she could not face  

I wanted more of her, but the intoxication of strangers
lasts only minutes longer than full blooded wine  
she called me a cab, and in a black silk robe
glided me to the door, where she laid $100 in my hand
“The plane is warm and the airfare is only $39”
I tried to kiss her one final time
when the taxi stopped at her steep drive,
but she buried her face in my chest,
“No more, he will be here soon”  

the midmorning sun now burned the sky blue  
the cabbie slapped his meter on
and I was back to measuring minutes and miles  
I looked back for as long as I could  
and saw the perfect reflection of her mountain
in all that shining glass, her black silhouette
only a curious slice in the reflected portrait
of the beautiful fleeting morn

he wallows in the slop,  
seemingly unable to stop  
alliteration is his biggest sin  
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere  
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out  

similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new

metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground  
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs  
far bigger than he

I kept quiet as a mouse
Soppy did too; we stayed snake close
to the ground in the tall grass

we didn't hear no hounds,
but that didn't mean them dogs
weren't there

Soppy and I had done
what old lady Lucinda said--waded in the deep creek
a good hour to leave them curs nothin' to sniff

with my one clear eye
I could see them flames bobbin' up and down
like gold ghosts in the willows

the air smelled like rain
I prayed real hard it would come down
drown out them fires

that would be one mighty sign
the good Lord heard my prayers
and took pity on us

Soppy, me and whatever other souls
hid in the devil's dark, watchin' the flames,
fearin' they meant eternal damnation

it is now an anniversary in some places
some anonymous faces
are celebrating the birth of a son
a wedding that happened
some hapless eve in yesteryear
and we have our anniversary,
the one we call
9/11
thousands have penned poems about that day
usually struggling with what they had to say
I know I did
not because I was choking back tears
or harbored any fears
that more planes would crash into innocent green knolls
or ram New York’s majestic glass towers
but because of the…flowers…the flowers
cut and placed on hallowed ground
gently laid without a sound
the flowers
the flowers always pay a price
for an earthly sacrifice
placed at altars made high
and on empty caskets passing by
they neither whimper nor whine
and say not a wilting word waiting
for the anguished congregating
of those who need to find meaning
in the limits of fleeting flesh
the flowers have
long ago accepted their finite fate
but sadly it is often too late
for those who stand and weep
to somehow embrace the silent sleep
that will come to all
on anniversaries yet to be dated
and billions of others to be created
who will proudly build new towers
and need to cut sad wise flowers

through my microscope, I spend hours
looking at the interstices of a plant cell wall;
if the earth did not spin, I could endure the whole
frigid night staring through my telescope at one violently still
crater on the moon

but I eat only soggy cheerios for breakfast,
ramen--chicken flavor--for lunch, EVERY day,
and either Dinty Moore stew or cheese ravioli
for my evening repast

my toothbrush must be blue, the paste pure white
and I could never tolerate the plight, of socks slipping
down past my ankles

I love Vivaldi, Brahms, and the sound of soft rain,
but hail batters my brain like a billion ball bearings
on an defenseless tin ***

my alarm must face due north
and my bed sunset west, beyond those things
I have no peculiar request

except
that things remain EXACTLY the way they are/were
for eternity

I can't play a savant symphony
like some would expect, or do cataclysmic calculations
in my head

though I can recall,
two years and four months ago today, a gold thumbtack sitting alone
on my dead granddad’s wood work bench, and the gray smelling roll of duct tape I placed precisely three inches from it, to keep it company

and if I ever again travel 365.26 miles to visit Granny
in Milwaukee, Wisconsin USA, it better be there, not having dared
to move a nightmarish nanometer

in the tauntingly quiet
florescent hospital hum
waiting for a hospice bed
people floated in and out
along with the scents of disinfectant and Salisbury steak
all spoke, in muted tones, words moving
through the liquid silver air of the night
they would squeeze your hand, gently
maybe casting a glance my way
before they walked into the dead vinyl tile halls
to the white squeaking sounds of faceless nurses’ shoes
where the obligated visitors would
breathe a proverbial sigh of relief
for they did not want to be there
at the moment
at the horizon between the slits in your eyes
imagining the ones behind the walls
and across the hills you would never again see
I would be there,
recalling horizons we had seen together
perhaps with you in my arms
before words built walls between us
and years were soaked up like desert rain
after seasons of doubt and drought
I wondered if you would ask me again
or if I would say yes this time
and if that would be enough
to release you
surely, I gave you life
another father and I both did, I suppose
could I take it as well
if you asked me again,
to increase the drowsing drip
of modern Morpheus’ elixir?

in blue depths beyond our sight
day or night, you flagellate flawlessly
as if you had not a care

dare I say you're fleeing
a predator we're not seeing?
or perhaps just at play

in a world Verne created,
a space ahead of its drudging time
perilous, yet sublime

loligo forbesii, I can only imagine
what watery waves you whipped before I had you,
deep fried calamari, on my plate

his old arm points west,
so weighted with years, his crooked
finger aims down, to the cracked ground
more than to the setting sun

thrice in eighty plantings,
he's seen these droughts drench
the thirsty earth with white fire
but this one, he swears upon
creation, is the worst

holy houses fill with prayer
for rain--the man says this is in vain,
though the good lord hears all entreaties
he has always been miserly
with his mercies

this shall pass
he avers, but he doubts
he will see another warm summer rain
his baptismal to come as wind
from the scorched plains, one
that scatters but dry seeds for
tomorrow's harvest moons

the only jeans with holes,
the polo shirt with "passionate peach" paint
from the kitchen remodel she wanted, the yard work shoes
these were the raiments he chose for his final drive, the one in "park"
in the garage, with the engine idling, its humming a monotonous lullaby
sung by compliant pistons

he wandered through the house
like a sated forager, looking at everything, for nothing,
old pictures on the walls--children, parents, one of himself,
the Yale mortar board tilting on a face who could
have been a stranger, and was, that last afternoon
books on shelves, mostly read, their stories now forgotten
even Moby ****, his favorite--eight silent vertical letters
replacing a white whale he relentlessly pursued with Ahab
a sink with one small plate and the disposal's shining ring,
the burial ground for his last, uneaten meal

those were the visions he chose
before writing his notorious note,
"BYE, ALL MY PAPERS ARE IN THE ROLL TOP"
taking the keys from the peg, and taking his final steps
into the cluttered gray garage, to his 2011 Volvo

when some hand turned the key,
igniting a welcoming flame, a few intrusive notes
of a Beatles song came through the six speaking speakers
yanking something in his gut, pulling his hand
to the handle to open the door, to return to the house,
the pictures, the stories on the walls, but the other,
the right hand, ejected the CD, rejecting the beguiling voices
that would have him stay, for another dull, deaf day

he folded his hands in his lap,
allowed his chin to rest on his chest
where his eyes could see the holes in his threadbare denim
taking solace in the fact that he had chosen the right clothes
so those still in the house, yet in the blur called life
would have only whole and clean reminders of him
to fold neatly, and leave on the porch
for the Salvation Army

he replaced the washer,
the refrigerator too

he liked new appliances; they
reminded him of her

especially when he opened the freezer and found
not a pint of her Haagen-Dazs Vanilla

the new washer contained old ghosts as well
for he blasphemed her by washing on hot

a prohibition when she was still here, for fear
of shirts shrinking, she always claimed

he wondered what words of hers would haunt him
when he gutted the wall for a new oven

maybe it would just be the longing for the smell
of cookies baking  (chocolate chip)

the ones she prepared for the grandsons, the day
she took a "quick nap" and never woke up

two hydrogen
met one oxygen
a dance ensued
I am

the coffee flowed through tales of three lovers,
all dead now, somehow  
he managed to squeeze in a live one, number four,
over apple pie with melted cheese  
she was still coming around, usually after her AA meetings
helping him fill his apartment with Lucky Strike haze  
(only woman he knew who smoked unfiltered ****)  
he did not know why she watched him drink  
maybe he was her 40 days in the desert,
tempting her with the libations
she loved more than her own flesh,  
(her son in Waukegan with his sober dad)    
maybe he was her test, he didn’t give a **** he said  
she was quiet in his bed
often, like a thief in the night,
she would be gone when he woke in the morning  
a book or two missing, ones he had read
and filled with notes, some with pages torn out
that lined his walls, even his crapper he said  
where he could stand and drain his lizard
read Ezra Pound and Elliot and ask himself  
why the **** did those guys use so many words?  
when he ate the last crumbs of his pie, he told me
he meant to ask me the same question,
but the answer would be too long,
that I asked questions that did not need answers
I tried to tell him
I felt the same way, but
he fired up another Lucky Strike,
and asked for the check
which I would pay
and I knew, he would hear nothing
I had to say

your Colorado village was freezing,
even the eve of May

the bus dropped me there
you weren't waiting

I toted my duffel bag, now turned sixty,
to your place

you didn't answer for an hour; when you did,
it was not sleep in your eyes

we didn't fight--it was too cold in your apartment
for heated arguments

you didn't bother to say you were busy, or forgot
your father's only son had agreed to this visit

you had only stale bread, stingy swirls of peanut butter
in a cold jar

you left with a promise to get food,
and my last seven dollars

I waited for you until dusk, then dragged my bag
to a locked church

I put an extra ancient sweater under my coat, leaned
against the chapel's small west wall

I watched the sky turn from mauve to black,
until I fell asleep

and dreamed of a time I carried you on my shoulders,
under a warm sun

from
a cosmic coin toss
to
the bleeding Calvary cross

why are you strolling through?  
you are supposed to “run in my family”
slashing and burning along the way
instead you take hostages
handing them recipes for a
crock *** slow simmer
to transform the hard, well-formed and fresh
into a soft mush
ready to be scooped into the bowls
of the beggars or the bold
who slop you down
crap you out
and flush you
to where you swim rather than stroll
or run in anybody’s family
but still manage to foul the earth
with your wretched stench

at the market
in front of me, he was buying wine
and breath mints for later

he was short twenty cents
on his hopeful purchase; I gave him a quarter
he didn't say thanks

for later
when he would tap on the apartment door
and she would answer, eager

would she let him
all the way in, would he stay
the night?

I hope
the two bits I gave him
changed something for
mints may matter

a flock of them we call a ******,
though not what I did to ****** men
I shot on the Mekong, who did nothing
but startle me a muggy morn  

I watched them float,
face down in primordial mire,
not far from the wire, which
split their world from mine  

birds came by noon
greedy passerines perching, pecking
on black clad backs; they sang not a word
of thanks to me

though I had made a meal of men,
for those who drop from blue skies--not even
when the flesh pulled swiftly from bone, and
blood flowed silent over their talons

July 4, 1970, Mekong Delta, Vietnam

he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia

the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die

a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom

perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise

he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery

or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns

they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters

liars

he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora

the fauna,  
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either

he sighted
a ****** of crows
lined on a dead oak branch  
he could see only silhouettes
against a gray dawn sky    

he closed one eye
pulled both triggers
on grandpa’s old gun;
all of them save one fell
from the lifeless limb  

the sole survivor
looked down on him,
but did not move, not an inch
not even when he reloaded,
aimed and shot again

I hoped to become an eagle
soaring above amber waves of grain
seeking perch in rarefied air

a red-tailed hawk,
or even a garden warbler
would have sufficed

instead I metamorphosed
into a mosquito and found myself
skulking on a fine lady's arm

I could only hope
she wouldn't swat me
before I drank my red full
and took flight into dusk

or returned
to my pitiable simian self,
lice laced and  homeless, hunkering
in a cold corner, wishing
I could fly

I visited her cottage each month, never
staying the night

through her window by the oak table
we watched the surf

on days when the sea was angry, we could hear
the waves crack against earth's spare spine

those times I liked, for she would hold my hand,
tightly, like I was her tether to the wide world

I would leave as the sun set, the moment a million
gold sparkles vanished from the waters

when I found her, I pretended she was asleep
but her eyes were open and still

staring it seemed through the same window
I sat with her and rubbed her cold hand

I stayed until the sun sank into the same salty sea
wondering if the old tales were true...

if a billion tears had flowed into the blue depths
making a soulful brine

I know mine fell on the soggy sand, disappearing
in the dusk that swallowed my tracks

my feet
are numb in my boots,
I have holes in my soles, the
brown water to my ankles
but it will not freeze  
filled with gun oil,
blood and drek

I am
not sure
when I slept last,
if I ever did  
the others are there,
their eyes closed  
some sleeping  
some trying to sleep  
some trying to awake,
though they will not  

we
have yet  
to throw their bodies
on the heap

all eyes
are closed in the trench
save mine, and the sergeant
who stands like a statue  
more still than the dead  
only his eyes move
back and forth  

when
I am not looking at the wire,
the rutted field, and the ridge
where the Germans also sleep,
breathing the same foul stench,
I close my eyes, though I do not sleep,
but think of home, of Irina
I see her eyes, not the sergeant’s
and wonder if they have been closed
like mama’s and papa’s
and those beside me

I ask
the sergeant if tomorrow will be
the white flag, when we and the Germans
can retrieve the dead, from the wires,
where they hang, starved naked apes…
and when the flares fire the night sky  
I see the reflection in their wide open eyes
like the glint of light on broken glass  

I cannot
close their eyes

all is still
except for the swimming rats
and the pyres that send curling smoke
into the gray sky--neither the rodents
nor the fires utter a sound  

the sun
is surely there, somewhere silently
making its arc in our pallid sky  
but the last time I saw it
was two mornings ago,
or three, or two

when it rose,
I felt it on my face  
through the caked mud,
and blood from Ivan,
who was shot through the neck
and fell on me, and I lay still
with him on top of me,
like a thick blanket
his warm life elixir
painting my helmet
and face red, him gasping softly,
though only a few seconds
until more rounds pocked his body,
a carcass by then,
but my salvation  

would I be
the sodden sack of flesh
that covers another?
would the one who hides
under me remember my name?
and recall that I was
his salvation,
though I only a breathless
monkey, with holes in my boots  
and a **** soiled uniform  

would he
walk bent over
with the blessed cane of age
and remember, all I had done
for him, by simply dying?

I feel flat lined, on this flat earth
now and then, when I follow the wild pigs’ path
into the thorny mesquite, the scrub oak,
I see a spike on my graph    

when I find their fresh droppings,
dung still steaming on morning’s crisp ground,
perhaps I have found, something to make
my heart pump enough to register a blip,
a puny peak on the scrolling page    

true, this is not
the rubber tree jungle where
I first learned terror and trembling unto death
where I hunted other prowling prey, who had no sharp fangs or tusks
to tear my young flesh,  but could, with a fateful finger flick
spill my rushing red blood in the puke brown soup
of the rice paddies

those days now are seen
faintly, through a milky haze,  
though for others it seems, recalled
at night, in dread dreams

I do not share their nightmares--if I did  
I would not wander into the winter woods
to face my foe, to hear its gray growling, hoping
its charge will be quick on this flat land,
and that the thumping in my chest
will paint a beautiful sharp line
on the pallid parchment

in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name

not aware I am there,
nor would she care

if I open the door without making
a sound,

I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me

when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away

the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room

"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated

the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open

that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains

which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough

not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited

until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar

only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground

from the bank
I see the ghost of a pier
old posts standing solitaire
a ramp rotted, long gone

moored to one stubborn beam,
a bass boat, tethered to time, rocking
with the whims of the waters
fickle, but steady

storms upriver may hasten
the current, bloat the stream
though the flow never ends,
lapping against the hull

hiding inside are more ghosts:
phantom footfalls of fishermen,
odors as old as Eden, sounds
which once made songs

by those who cranked the motor,
manned the rudder and cast the lines
into the depths, seeking a tug--a pull
that meant dinner, a small success

a simple surrender of one species
to another, from beneath the surface
into the sun, a sublime suffocation,
then stillness before the gutting

many a day ended this way
the boat buoyed again to the dock
bellies then filled from the sacrifice,
the waters licking long the wood

in Ohio, Mother
hung our laundry humming,
clothespins in her mouth

in Texas, she made my father
buy a dryer after angry wet sheets whopped her face
more than one blustery afternoon  

scarcely a score before
Panhandle winds were often roiling clouds,
black as charcoal, laying waste to everything
that grew and breathed

old men at the feed store talked
about the dusters from back then
and about every drop of rain,
every white flake that fell

I missed going barefoot
and fast learned to hate goat heads,
and all thorny things that thrived
in that flat land

Mother despised the hot winds almost as much
as the cool stares she got from the church women
whenever she opened her mouth, revealing
she wasn't one of them

Mother ended words
with “ing,” the extra consonant considered
superfluous at best, blasphemous
to some

men and women both
sounded to me like they had grist
from the silos in their mouths

my father had lived there
as a boy, swore he would never return
the dreaded dust still clinging to his clothes
when he left for the war

oil money brought him back
but only long enough for his skull
to be cracked dead by hard pipe

his insurance settlement
bought us a place in the Buckeye State
as quick as the lid flapped shut
on our mailbox

Mother wept little
until our first night back
in Ohio, when a blizzard knocked out
the lights, and our two candles burned flat
in the cold

my uncle brought bread, butter
and warm soup, which we ate in the gloom
while Mother told my father's favorite brother
how much we loved the Texas sun

a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought

the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise

the man had only a Swiss Army knife  
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw

this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai

villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman

many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got

even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned

appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down

not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands  
but perchance healed his heart

I stopped being a story teller when I learned to read. I don’t think I ever learned to write. I think I was a story teller long ago, before the truth mattered. Before the truth became an obsession. Truth can get in the way when we want to tell a story. Truth has a way of narrowing the walls around us,  putting the pressure on us, and sometimes squeezing the blood from us.

When I look at what I write, the things others would call poetry, the truth is nearly always inversely related to whatever value the words have. You see, there will always be someone who has felt more intense pain or joy. There will always be someone who has behaved more heroically or shamefully than any person about whom I can write. There will always be some common man or woman who has transcended his or her circumstances far better than anybody I have ever met or observed.

If I feel compelled to write about things, acknowledging that whatever great stories I might have had inside were long ago flushed from me by the waters of truth, then I must create people and events. I must conjure them up like ghosts. These apparitions have no form to be washed away.

The people who follow my words like tracks of an animal--predator or prey--should know I feel closest to being one who says something of value when the words are the greatest distance from the texture and grit of events. If I were to tell the truth, it would hurt. It would hurt me to write the truth, and it would hurt the reader who reads it. That reader has often rested complacently with the belief that the words are true, that history is really history rather than one of an infinite number of versions of the truth in this thing one might be inclined to call the book of life.

When  you read my words, please don’t forget I don’t like the truth. I avoid it even in my stories that I believe are based on "real" occurrences. I avoid the truth. Yes, I may have seen the eyes of bloodied Vietnamese children when I was twenty, and yes, I may have sat in a bunker and listened to someone tell me they saw innocents slaughtered on the Mekong,  or what the young warm blood felt like on their hands, and yes, I may have heard someone’s last words before hospice sleep, but all these things are only shadows cast by some light whose source I cannot see or comprehend.

Truth hurts. If you have read my words before, and felt something, there is no way to rob you of the feeling. Please, however, know that I was doing my utmost to hide the truth, because trying to reveal it would have been even more futile.

Desert and mountains merge into brown haze
in my recollection of those days.
The smell of gunpowder or paupers' fires
could ignite a conflagration of memories
if I would not extinguish them
which I do.
But one burns ever clear, even in the fickle fog of memory
—the mongrel and her pups
scrounging for scraps around our camp
and the Afghan village below.
We watched them in their scavenging and their play
until one crystal blue and frigid day
when Randy captured the runt of the bunch
and fed her some of his meager lunch,
and placed her inside his jacket
where she slipped into rabbit chasing sleep
and did not make a peep
until I heard her whimper
as the bullet that sliced through her gut
lodged itself in Randy’s young heart.

the boy leaned his head back
and proclaimed the clouds looked like
a dog in a pond

when in his three years had he seen
a dog in a pond? who taught him you could see
anything in the heavens?  

trees spouting marshmallow blossoms  
white angels in a kangaroo choir, dragons
breathing scarlet fire   

who would tell him he saw but vapor
and light? who could make his hound drown
by ******* dry such a beautiful blue?