Some nights
the moon throws its light
like an old man
who can't hold his liquor in
and spits blood in the morning

Someone ought to kick some sense
into me, if they did I'd hum
like the body of a fiddle

I propose we all strip down
and take a swim with my friends
the dragonflies, but no one will listen
to what I have to say when I throw my voice
like an empty bottle deep in the forest

When I think of all the dark
and swift things of my rivers,
I wonder why time the old boot -
legger hides his maps and goes
on traveling the low roads

Alone I can tell you there is so much
beside the point of the thorn of the rose
and why the moon is with me always
whenever i choose to go it alone

I drink from that blue jar of time
and breathe the breath of sweet infants

Believe you me the dead shepherd
we sent up the river in a faraway land
in a time so long ago still holds us
all by the holes in his hands

You can see the dark clouds up ahead,
my cloisters I am always walking through them
with you children of the lost dreams,
and with you fifty-something snow-headed men

We have just collided with our lost sons
on the high road of morning, we are rising
dust like the dirt on our children's graves
saying nothing to our brothers the stones.

Subtle observations
upon this country weekend:

Black starry wood headboard,
the curlicues of nebulae and
galaxies, I wake up weeping,
some sad dream,
grimaced face the deck
of an old schooner, mast
creaks and tears leak, and
head sounding an ocean's fixins'.

Later on the drive
the road map splayed,
there is a bug, ant like,
some kind of critter
skittering over
the routes, symbols
legends and
betwixt greens.

It's moving while I'm
moving, but the
six legger scouts
another surface altogether
while I sit aside on mine,
perhaps, hopefully, sowing
a vaster serpentine ledger.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 What Would Matt Dillon Do?

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A two-legger who tortures a creature from the wild
Might tomorrow torture his neighbor’s child