cold as New England
winters. Fallen like wood from
an axe in shards shaped and
sharp as tacks in my back

yard. My pieces are pine
needles spread over a patch of
yellow blanket. Cause I look like
litter to the fox and the hound

as they go. I dry to a dullish
brown and blend in with the ground
as the sun thawed the snow. Men
trod with boots and squirrels

paw with their claws, leaving me
turned up as autumn leaves. I
bottom out in the eaves. A paste of
mud and stick is me.

tonight, in the backyard. They're
falling hard from the sky, like bowling
***** squashing apple pie. They snort
and grunt from a mile, landing on top

of each other in a pig pile. Ma says
I'm mistaken. I say prepare ye, for
some bacon. I took out the frying pan
and turned on the overhead fan. Smoke

will fill this tiled kitchen. But it'll be
finger-lickin’. Men and women will
stop by for a whiff of pig fry. Morning
sun chased the wheel cheese

moon. Bellies swell like hot
air balloons. When life hands you pigs
mountains in size for lunch we will
serve ham sandwiches and fries!

like a steel needle stuck
in the track of a record on
the old Victrola. But now it's like
cherry cola without the fizz. I've

broken into pieces these words
of his. The reds and the blues I've cut
like tile and let them fall in a pile
on top of my dresser drawer. I can pave

a path to Bangor with the yellows
and the black, and trace my way
back to the day. The grey cockatiel
flying around my head repeats,

repeats. His words bled/out my eyes,
nose and ears. And has not stopped
in all these years. A mosaic
of his face warped in time and space.

his hot words like candle
wax, separating the whites from
the blacks then I could relax
into the greys. And gather sage.

If I could melt
down his rage like April
snow by the afternoon I’d see it
go. Underneath it the spring,
and tufts of feathers from the robin.

If I could melt
the past into a song
I'd weep when I sang it,
but still make me strong. I'd pierce
through the flames like the phoenix bird
and rebirth.

in. The days are paper thin
that I can crush them in
my hands like a wafer. It's like
a chafer eating the roots. I can

not flower shoots in a black
tar sky. With coating on my wings
so heavy I cannot fly. I sink
down early like the sun, as squirrels

on the run. Falling like the crimson
leaves, hung over like my roof's
eaves I grow derision in the
gutters.  June, July and August

flutters like a butterfly over hills
and cornflower sky. I retire early to
my grey sofa with a book and a mimosa
to drift off…

is strung by a grey thread
rolling off my four-post bed
at night till the light of a
screaming morn when I sew it

back on with a line from a
song. I'm a bobblehead doll nodding
to the crowds. Floating high like
a balloon, getting lost in the clouds

in a marmalade sky. My head is loose
you can spoon it up like chocolate
mousse. I lost it so many times shopping
for bargains at the five and dime. It fell

between the wooden slats, and was
scratched by a feral cat. I'm like a headless
chicken, running around. Like roux for
the gravy one can say I’ve been thickened.

again, a blend of strawberry fruit
and champagne cake. I lost it by
the lake, sitting in the sedges. It was
old with yellow edges. It floated

like a paper boat, making
illegible every line I wrote. It took
a couple hairpin turns around
the bend and past the ferns. Then

the wind whipped it
south. And it was swallowed
up by a big bass mouth. I tried
to mimic the recipe. But

it was not my specialty. I tried
searching for one just like
it. But they came out flat and ****,
even dining a la carte.