love by the river in springtime is a perilous thing

the sky is bruised
with purpled patches,
gauze of white cotton
cloud strewn unsteadily
across the southern horizon.

many have come
with their beach chairs
and their expensive long lenses
to watch the herons
chase each other round

the naked winter nests
in the farthest branches.
i watch them watching
from the pipe bridge over
pregnant waters, the little islands

sunk beneath the brown and the rushing,
tree roots emerging from the current like
strange seabirds that reach
for the sky. from the squawk
on the other side of the river,

i know the herons aren’t
in the trees. they’ve found higher
ground among the shallows and
play their love games, as we do,
amid the rocks and the shadow.

brief empirical note on rigid body dynamics

The refraction of one-way windows
into remorseless blue-
puddle pasts full
of breaking
glass and sad Sunday

mornings angles
incidentally with the co-
efficient of sweet f(r)iction that
beads sweat on rivergrass
in December sunlight.

(Their shattering is
a thing beyond
the imperfect forces that pull
bodies & universes

Re-Drawing a Portrait Once Painted on Plywood

A lone housefly myopically crawls

up pale-peeling kitchen walls, entropy
in quotidian microcosms that

screams of a stiletto- hardness
tattooed in both prismic eyes. It

belays the soundful softness
of rounded thighs and arms

of the woman at the table,
the smoke of her solitary

cigarette winding like
lust toward the fluorescence

overhead. There is sex
in this as in everything.

Even death. An unwinding
of flesh into the universe

that birthed it, entropy
again. Or perhaps simply

childhood timelines
tangled with tangential

tomorrows and the

of memory, a stillframe
of this solitary instant, yellow

and blue, aborted phosphorescent