Prologue

This story arrives
on the back of a coyote
seen running through the woods
near where we used to swim.

This story contains
no words, only the texture
of fur and tracks on dirt
and debris

from howls
that got tangled up
in a pack
of whispers.

A picture book
unfolds before us:

This is no folktale,
no myth, no picaresque
anecdote, nothing but a rogue
silhouette cast in stone.

Then a muted crumbling
of crunchy architecture.

Epilogue

Her personal alarm
pierces the man’s pride.
A lone song dog
without a territory,

he opens his mouth.
The quiet rings
false across his lips.
A vegetarian for 35 years,

he would gag
on her promises
if she let him
get that close.

Tributary

named after a lake
named after a girl

strong coffee in a glass
vessel after beer tapped
from a wooden cask

cold rain at night
after a wintry mix all day

the beat of a drum
filtered through leaky
headphones after all that silence

on the other side
of a retaining wall

run / hide / fight
the slow dance track plays

no one’s dancing
who remembers how

someone please

let’s build
a skyway to the moon

the weather between
here and there

can tire wings
bend fins
fray tails

someone please

turn off
the piped-in song
cut the bell’s tongue

someone please

let the buskers inside
we have a long way to go

let them sing
of views and the hand
that opens the cage

someone please

A light lilts over
wet roads, the grass
barely covered.

Slow moments,
fast ones, some
carving a channel between.

She doesn’t know which
she wants to set
the rhythm of her day.

It’s not just hers.
Not really hers at all. Gratitude

comes in shades of blue,
or is it green to gold.
Soon, so soon, too soon,

in the dark,
she can’t tell.

Check it out:

2015 Winter issue of Concis

you can’t fake a fold
when you really crave a cut
or a curve

when wearing earbuds
in a cafe sounds like nonsense
to your unplugged ears

when you see a red sky
at night
not in the morning

when you don’t believe
in worshipping
any trinity

when you wish for a gale
but settle for an exhale

and a scream
from your false vocal folds
becomes the truth