the feeling of turning a coin over 
in my hand, head to tail, until that sharp
scent of metal rubs off on my skin.

the five o’ clock alarm that never properly rung,
and after having resolved that June first would be productive,
lying in bed until twelve forty five.

mauling over what to make my first entry 
for months and months and months
and deciding that certainty is overrated anyway.

the blinds have not been properly drawn open,
nor have the towels all been collected for washing.
maybe i’ll do it today, who knows.

Right leg caught
in a fashion disaster.

Putting on a full show for the passengers.

I missed the bus.
Howling like a wolf.

My cast comes off
in four to six weeks.

How it feels
when both parents are gone
no matter how old you are.

No parent to call to tell about the cute thing
the grandkids did
or how smart and talented and big
they are.  

No parent to rely on for comfort
when a scary health problem hits
or your best friend dies.  

No wise patriarch
to ask advice
in the face of hard decisions.

Even in old age,
miss Mom and Dad
terribly.  

We pave you over
without thought, squeeze
breath and water from you
rip you open recklessly
poison you, cut you,
clear you, use you

We pray to distant heavens
while our existence
is owed to you,
invisible you, underfoot
our faithful servant
until drought
and monocultures
and heat spins you
into a gray wind-ghost

You are:
elemental galaxy
organic universe
root-veined
gravity-bound
unappreciated home
of plants, insects, arachnids,
moles, voles, worms,
fungi and microbes
a miracle

Your dark webbed empire
sustains all life, all riches;
without you,
a planet dirt-poor

May we fall to our knees
in love, in wonder,
may we learn to pray
to your grandeur before
it is too late.

Scat doesn’t lie.
The birds ate my blueberries.
My dog stole some carrots.
When unraveled, owl poop
reveals the mouse bones;
the structure of past nutrition
made strong in the night sky.  

Neither do poems.
There are entire months where
I sift, sniff, massage, weigh,
and reassemble the bones of other people’s poetry.
What they ate. How they change.
Tracking their traces,
holding them up to the light
to see what shadows get reflected on the wall.  

Mini-maps of entropy, intent,
and just possibly a way forward.

antecedents prescient
on the mind on my way
awash in fluorescent Appalachia
as summer blooms

to know what joys I walk amidst
what pleasure awaits
those who release
from scratched clouds
or living truths
mind weaves roads forward 

It’s June, the beginning of PoMo, the first day
of gardening with the construction noise next door silenced.
I pull weeds, dig some shade plants to share —  
Shade Begonias and Solomon Seal to be exact,
but exact is not my mood out there with the birds
whose names and calls I cannot remember and I am not
in the mood for Merlin to tell me who they are
nor for figuring what I am smelling this morning,
whether magnolia or the last of the catalpa blossoms.
I want only to breathe in bird song, hands in dirt.

Just chucking mismanaged

That July blue-sky
         morning called

Nico sits on barn-red porch step
         crow-black
                  guitar on knee

Throws back her head
          sings Gershwin’s “Summertime”
                    in unadorned voice

After Lucille Clifton
open your eyes to water

Now
    is the time to
Steer
    away from the safe harbors
Position
    green islands with sandy beaches at your back
Crank
    your anchor tightly into its locker
Rest
    your hands lightly on the wheel then
Fill
    your sails with wind to
Fly