"Honeysuckle"



     Inside 

     your yellow throat, 

     the bee tunnels:

     I, too, remember the sweetness

     of lips.







"Against Night"



Moonlight

behind trees, throws 

branches through the window, 

stripes your sleeping: cold, 

I touch your lips, test for breath

against my knuckles. Just yesterday,

we were young.







     "Holy Land"



     Grandma's fingers,

     like missionaries, sow

     the soil's dark continent, raise

     green temples, irises gold

     as any mosque: it's there

     I worship.














"September Eulogy"



The kitchen window

yaws on rain. A hemlock branch

scratches at the screen, as wind

worries the tablecloth.



Coffee rings interlock there,

binds red square to white,

an abstract procession of infinity

the wife's dish rag will dissolve

in a fit of suds. A gust thumbs 



through the blank sheets

of my notebook, kicks the pen

onto a floor that needs swept.

In the yard, a sortie of starlings

march on my dog's bowl



as if there's no one thing

in this world more important

than a crust of bread. The dog,

staging his moment, explodes

them, a concussion of wings. 



Dad, all the words

I could give you,

and I can't write one

past this world.