poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain



Snow-melt is sad and slow, a brief return
as water’s season-turning bares the weight
of misplaced expectations like a urn
my truck ran over winter-blind in haste
crushed its wilted plants in-focused resting
without a thought we’d loan them if we could
as if they needed our unconscious pasting
like native populations need our shrouds.

Frozen, liquid, vapor; which it is
together in the once we’ve noticed twice
before and after, but the ‘during’ waits
for notice that we haven’t given it
haven’t to give yet; we would need to splice
passage with passing, those uncommon mates.


Beginnings, ends; all classic middle-muddle
wishing order nothing has but dreams
loose change turned to kindling bundled huddled
near a stove as if they weren’t yet heat

or meaning its unnatural correlate
they shift or shiver settling themselves.
A hawk floats high over a field snow-laid
a rabbit hides in, its winter coat melts

into the field until it moves, becomes
lunch in a blink of savagery drop-dive
claws swung forward handily quick run
too late lifted an almost human cry

a grey sky takes them or they take it; choose
your habits or these middle-muddle blues.

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