foundation

Without a doubt beauty will

leave, without a pause it may

all go away, snuffed out

in an instant, altered in

the angles, heaven heavy upon

every crown, broken branch and

bent bough, the burden 

hurled up cradle and all,

the slow strike of scratched out

lightning across the lot of 

all this sparkle and pitch.

The world waves goodbye to

the luckless and the foolish,

the foot dragging along

the floorboards, the foundation shifting 

beneath each ache.

Oh root, oh revel— let summer

uncoil through soil and stone 

following the flower to the fruit,

merciless sunlight beating down

burnishing each burden

with a failing flourish,

the mindful moment 

disbursed as heat and light.

brick

There was a question 

posed I suppose by

the words’ weight and

the way they stack the deck,

by the side of the phrasing,

something in the degree

the slope takes to mitigate 

descent. Suppose it took 

a sky that shade of blue,

the sweat and stick of

heat and shimmer,

the obliteration of the atmosphere 

in these tragic captions.

There was something said

again and again, ritual 

prophecy and prayer,

a warning left behind by the wind,

that dry that seizes 

the breath in the breach,

the ask worked from want,

an answer left like a brick

chocking the tire in the drive, 

waiting for the wheel to turn.

enchanted

The sickness sticks 

from stem to stern

it thrives from shuck to jive,

a shambles dragging 

deadweight through

the bright blue of

the livelong day

the depths of the intention 

buried in the sediment

the one-way ticket

up and spent, breath to breath

all dust and dreck and slow

dying in dribs and drabs 

clockwork and wet work and 

this turning of the word

thick with breezy warm gloom.

The weeds are thick with wish and

worms in turn as each

dog takes its day and

these liminal bones

clack and thunk as

the socks come off,

the consequences left of

this service to the vast enchantment.

small loop

You read it and you think

maybe I read it wrong

so you find the line

going back a few,

maybe the poem misspoke,

maybe it took a tone

feeling the weakness bearing 

all the weight, whatever 

the wind or the way.

Maybe at last

you’ve been found out—

just a little meat

a puddle of blood 

a few greasy bones.

Another set of botched confessions,

dull stratagems pushing shadows 

all around, a small loop

shoving your greatest hits

up to the surface and 

down to your depths.

This suggestion, this assertion,

this cutthroat cull spilling 

blood to rust setting up

a say so. The words

caught you in a corner,

a heart all a pitter patter,

a breath that knows it’s spent.