The metaphor is not lost on me

How I tramp through these days in your shoes,
learning to build fences in the early april mud.
There is something very like redemption
in the hardpan, & in the thrust
of shoulders exhuming each fistful
of reluctant dirt. Just as there are many meanings
in un-earth, & some that should stay
buried. Lying next to you at night,
I find comfort in the soft wind
of your inhale; it lessens the sadness by a spade.
There is much that I miss still, or perhaps
it is that I am still searching
for the tools to set the thing right,
to find us plumb again.

augury, in the strictest sense

we walk through thunder,
and there are drawn stormclouds

across your cheeks, brow; like train-
tracks to nowhere, and i’ll hop

the next boxcar, simple as un-
wanting, follow it til i find

the sun buried in your irides.
this metaphor is a railroad:

straight, the slow
unraveling of sudden horizons.

a friend tells me
the story of the red-

tail hawk attacked
sequentially by two crows

and a mockingbird. i
wonder if it’s because they know

jealousy like you do, see its predatory
threat atop every lamppost and

telephone pole.
raindrops like fat clay pigeons hiss

against rusted rails, tear-on-trestle,
black-feathered bullets of omen:

where will you be
when the lightning comes down?

 

character study no.1

When she arches her spine,
the line of her chin cuts
like a laser; the sway of her hair
smells of late-summer roses.
Her hips
are glorious;
her calves, twin plumes
of aerosolized ecstasy.
Her puddled skirt
drips secret joys
onto night canvasses best
found in oblivion.

But as the fog lifts off the river, she
shrinks like an angel’s
trumpet in the rising sun,
her pale pink petals
thorning and wilted.
The slats of half-closed blinds
leave stippled
oubliettes across
the valley of her back.
Forlorn,
he pricks
until she bleeds,
puddling her blue iron
tears onto narrow
pineboard floors.