New Hampshire

wild cat in the

wood pile, deer

you can’t see.

I drift with

the poem you

sent into an

underground

river where

Indians eat

fish so old

they have no

eyes.  If I

shut my eyes

I hear the

water that

flows under

the columbine.

When I touch

the chair I hear

bluebirds that

were wild in its

leaves when there

were red flowers

in its branches                                                                   printable

Champlain, Branbury, the Lakes at Night

always women in the

dark on porches talking

as if in blackness their

secrets would be safe.

Cigarettes glowed like

Indian paintbrush.

Water slapped the

deck.  Night flowers

full of things with wings

something you almost

feel like the fingers

of a boy moving, as if

by accident, under

sheer nylon and felt

in the dark movie house

as the chase gets louder,

there and not there,

something miscarried

that maybe never was.

The mothers whispered

about a knife, blood.

Then, they were laughing

the way you sail out of

a dark movie theater

into wild light as if no

thing that happened

happened                                                                          printable