I am but anuthatch poetpecking downwardin the January yardsurrounded by deathand gloom,blue grayblending into the desolatelandscape,eking out another day,a seed, a millet, an acornsmacked against an oak,bucking the breeze,dodging the…
You swallowthe lemon dropsunand inculcate twilightlike an ocean waveacross the summer firmament,undulating with swathsof tangerine-pink-amethystribbonsfading into fuzzy, blue-cured black,ripplingwith fireflies,crickets on call,guttural toadsbelchingon a stream ofsteam,stars pulsing,the moonhung like an…
Her phantom fingers find me—sometimes —in the maudlin morning,periwinkle ribbonssweeping the tops ofthe woods belowmy window, and — perhaps —she brushes my forehead,pushing aside my boyish bangs,like a feather tickle,and…