It’s been hard to hear
the song of grass and trees
over the din of teacups
and traffic and a sky full
of tormented birds.

I was uplifted
when the hawk captured the bunny;
it was equally satisfying
no matter whose side I was on.

Rusty swinging gate
trembling hands
swelling kisses
formica and coffee
blanket cave

screaming sunrise
the butler didn’t do it
potted plant
wooden table with book
sighing sunset

dusty scrolls
stone fire bread
thick socks
clutching tenderly
frosty window

counting
following nothing
humming
smiling regardless
uncapturing.

The sky is
a split gourd with pulp strewn about,
clouds / seeds / crazy bird flights –
are they laughing at our ineptitude?
We have no plans worth saving
and all that’s gooey
is comfort / revival / love poem
with much viscera and kisses.

A thousand thousand steps
to a bliss I’ll never know,
across lush valleys
and bilious little towns.
I imagine all the lives lived
in full dimensional grace behind
lit windows like beacons
but I can only see one,
a far away warmth,
kept like a timepiece on the mantle.
It’s getting colder now
as October has its way
with all creatures
of time and night.