1 New Poem

Return Trips

The bonfire flicker-crinkle of
gas station roadmap in wearing passenger

seat fabric, outdated both, from 1971
before four-lane extensions and the
naming of Nunavut, fiddled with two
stain patches of nicotine yellow,
symbolized with roiling of red ink,

the fold crease of wrong turn

frustrations.

Echoes of ancient shores, the first
of oaken oar to tredge, the
first settler's shoeprint, ring out
in the blue hues of bridge iron,
the browning oxygen of 20s Ford,
carving walls, mythological
mirroring right back to
the heart of it.

1 New Poem

As Ever

In those cascade washes, the coursing,

pulsing, alive with a thousand and two

of streamer-spark nights, our

country town sense of shameless

pride was given forever shape,

quite apart from our bookmark

scribbles, our half-ted knots of

teenage commitment flip-flapping

in the farmhouse breeze,

it was some grander thing,

carved of soapstone ambitions old,

left to dry bake in sterling silver

cast of engagement band expectations,

some guidepost gilding for the

open wounds of concrete, steel

we set up to stamp our names

in heaven-spent splendor over

the choral ring of ear in skipping

time, over the facade of wooden panel

faces to claim our in-born ambitions.

1 New Poem

Vitals

I am vanishing, two dimensions

of fluttering, tissue-thin in breeze

drawn through these tendons, bones,

bits briny toothsome left from before,

when once I was some unshapely

bloat.

Some ill-formed sculpting comic clay

of why these ripened, warming flesh

tones appear as salvation to mind,

appear as remedial course pens

in the study diet tables, box

restriction laws, jumping up and down.

But pedal further still the faster,

onward and onward, there is always

some newly outbroken curve to

tame, some newly tick-boxed

number to wrangle down.

1 New Poem

Whiskey Bets

In these rooms with the flickering

fixture table settings, cracks in

paint can finish to let in April's

winter chill, spaces for pill cabinets

and stone-faced stairwell scrape of patient's

steel toes as midnight companions,

I still in blank bleaching

of after hours' confidence, same

five electrified scratch signals as before

for driving out eerie peaces of

dusty walls, for keeping steady breathless

of strobing time passed in anticipation.

Counting the minutes between belches

of the bus depot's steam heat clang

and the mystic branding fire

of matured living's lastly dance

upon heath ashes; in anticipation

of the small of Johnnie Walker Red

mingling with cut turf, lotus in

your speaking tones, in the

watery shape you cut of

newspaper headline, wrapped in

Renaissance portrait models.

1 New Poem

So Well You Take It

This tangle swings open, about,

rusting screen door slamming

in causeway bravery breeze,

the meeting across rickety

pizza shop tables in broken

tumbling slot-blind, the still

life snapshot I take of

rolling hillside slopes,

how they remind of bittered

white branch sawed, hanging

in half-steps, up to bright

suburban siding, up to darker

alleyways stirring in the limelight,

and back criss-crossing the

Interstate Highways.

Your Midwest accents keep a

flame, stain smoke on the billboard

backings, between city spires.

1 New Poem

Kitchen Fixtures

It's those dragging-sharp knives,

those stinging cuts soaked in

kosher salt licks, acidic pungent

of spices tangled on tongue,

that take me, cap in hand,

to again the cobblestone corner,

the wildly-walked pacer's place,

you take in still bed sheet crease.

Homecooked presence staining memory,

there was your hand in handle,

wishing upon tablecloth settings

we could share in that heart smoulder's

glow, that quick candle-shadow

diamond commercial silhouette,

the coupling kind for those who've

never worried an egg timer's second

of diving a foursome's cookbook

for one.

1 New Poem

Space for Pill Bottles

This flushed, spiced blood reeling

back, boxer's punch glove in

still-life smile, made the bones

more visible day by day, watch hand

by green oven clock light,

never could quite tear from plastic

hands, never could push away your

candy-sweets and oiling slosh.

When you'd nail your will name

to the Lord's house door, shameful

in the Sunday tea time sun, I'd

take down to thumb the pages clean

of ink shrivel wrapping blank stain

left in fingerprint cascades, the

same marking of greasy tripwire

facade you fake in the theatre hour.