FOLK TALE

Perhaps these 

lives of ours—

these contrapuntal 

fables—

need fewer 

revisions

than they do 

repeated listens. 

The hell 

of a booby-trapped 

yellow brick road 

is traversed 

much more steadily 

when marched arm-

in-arm 

with surrogates. 

In company, as in 

hindsight, we might 

finally see 

that means 

are really just 

ends in disguise—

good witches, god-

mothers, and beautiful 

enchantresses 

transmogrified 

to beggars 

stranglers, and thieves; 

and concepts 

such as allegory, 

metaphor, and moral, 

no more 

than scant patchworks 

of leaves, placed 

to cover-over 

the crevices 

in our scant experience 

and deep pitfalls 

of our laurels. 

WRITTEN IN THE SKY

While experts consider 

and argue indoors

about where 

in the world our 

language comes from, 

anesthetizing daggers 

of subzero sun 

spear the black 

commas of crows 

on the horizon,

causing them to gleam 

in the winter light 

like flecks 

of sleek 

obsidian and onyx

as their capering arcs 

conjure wild sigils

which dare us to braid them 

into something 

like intention. 

OUTSIDER

After all it has done, 

the best we thought 

to do was chase it, 

then replace it electrically 

and on-demand. 

No wonder, then 

the sun 

says no prayers, 

goes to bed each night 

believing nothing.

For doing what it does, 

true genius 

is shunned; 

it kindles and excites about 

as well as it offends—

no wonder 

the sun 

has no friends. 

HOWLER

Cold, hard, 

and old 

as the wandering djinn,

I too run only 

in self-

imposed circles 

from northwest  

to southeast 

and back again. 

No wailers 

need apply; 

I need no familiar 

to invite me in. 

My dominion is 

your body's prison

my dharma 

is your din. 

Who am I?

DENIAL

No scene more 

sober than the small 

town in winter

where, in and around 

the towerless high street, 

for-lease lots 

lie in snow-

white terraces 

like the fallow 

garden plots of some 

vast ice palace 

from which precisely 

no bells toll 

to mark the mourning 

of days gone by, 

of auld lang syne 

and its sallow dead, 

because, colorless

though it is, 

this is a dominion

they could never inhabit—

or so the powers 

that be would insist:

damn it, snap 

out of it, you nameless, 

you ignorant! This 

is the land 

and the time 

of the living.

DOWN BUT NOT OUT

With the thinness 

and pallid consistency 

of dead trees 

by midwinter, the sparrows 

have grown 

hard to see. Still, 

we know they are here 

by the sharp way 

they cry 

at the bleary un-

folding 

of indigent dawn—

as if solely responsible, 

as it limps 

through the sky, 

for bearing the war-

wounded weight 

of the outcast 

but stubbornly 

oncoming veteran 

sun. 

UNFINISHED

We are all born 

as hatchlings: blind, 

featherless, pink—

and yes, equipped 

with the twin 

wings of hopefulness 

and grief. Only,

we don't know how

to harness them them yet. 

For now, we are young, 

and the dead of course

are other ages.

At the windows, 

by their ledges, 

on some precipice 

we wait, tasting

the upraising breeze 

on our faces;

but the sky is 

much colder than we 

can conceive,

and the sun, so much 

farther away

than we think.