I am guessing
her hair is blue.
But just a guess
for all I see are knuckles,
white knuckles that clutch
at the wheel
like a drowning swimmer
clings to flotsam.

The morning haze wraps itself around me
like an old familiar blanket,
or a lover’s fevered embrace.
The impending day, pregnant with possibility,
tickles my senses
like the tang of
Cool Ranch Doritos

Young boy
bewildered, bereft,
alone
in center field.
So inconsequential
he casts no shadow

Searching for Christmas ornaments
in the attic, I come across
an old battered carton, held fast
with browned and aged tape.
And drifting in subtle notes
around the box,
the scent of old electronics.

To ascend

that vertiginous spire

will demand of me

a piece

rarified and orotund.

It was sheer dumb luck
brought that tree limb down
directly on top
of the air conditioner,
and on the hottest damned day
of the hottest year
in living memory.

He stands
amid the brown
withered corn,
used up and dusty,
bereft of hope,

The hearing of this tale
will request of you a few
fragile moments, dear reader.
Best settle yourself
neath a wide-arm tree.

Pick up some artichokes too
if they’re fresh.
And Brussels sprouts.
Don’t forget the Brussels sprouts.

Dark weathered patina
belies the strength
of iron wrought
to battle stone.
With weight and heft
of Roman broadsword,

John Bascomb took to the open seas
As dawn awoke on an April morn’.
And in his parlous mind was formed
The germ of a powerful disease.

Camille stands among the lilies
scissors in hand.

In the parlor
an empty vase
glistens beneath the chandelier
awaiting her return, longing to be filled.

He looked
straight into me,
through glinting brass bars,
head tilted almost coyly
to one side,
a voice
not his own

I wish I’d been there
the night Houdini locked his keys in his car.
To witness that magical interplay
of bitter helplessness
and cruel dismay.
To watch the consummate showman
struggle and curse,

The city night
awakes just as the
crushing sun goes falling down
and on the heated asphalt streets
that radiate
and palpitate
men cruise in cars
around the station

He sits in the back,
where darkness
embraces him with heavy arms.
As the thump of bass
slams up and down his spine,

Noble Teiresias,
turn not away,
I beseech thee,
for I have come
in search of wisdom
and the sight
that springs from sightlessness.

The heavy gray sky does not relent.
The late spring deluge punishes us all.
but still we bend our backs,
passing sandbags,
setting them high and firm
along the levee wall,

An hour before sunup
she waits alone on the beach
looking east
anticipatory,
while unbeknownst
a million stars
decorate the black dome
above her head,

My America
stands outside the nursery
at Bath Memorial Hospital,
one hand raised to the glass,
uncertain which is the one.