these feet
(said the crow)
were made to fly



I ride your heart
long climb up
toboggan ride down
go
again?



broken rosary
I pick up
all my prayers



under my tongue
you are my
happy pill



crow tracks
in the center
of new snow
appear
then disappear



the graceful spirits
of bone and feathers
who never think about ending



sometimes
sparrows fly out of my poems
and I have to chase them down
and put them
into another poem



the morning
already outside
playing with the birds



I watch
later that afternoon become
earlier that night



crow
turns on
the streetlight



a mistake
the day made
contrails crossing out the sky



sparrows
no reason not to sing
on gravestones
no reason for me
not to listen



I blow out the candle
so the night
can find me



not
the fragile green of spring
but the deeper green
of pine trees
waiting for snow



I keep throwing
the night outside
cat
keeps dragging it
back in



first frost
all the stars
the night left on my lawn



outside
I hear december
clearing his throat



the wind
a thousand cats
on my roof



dead weeds
and grasshoppers
my backyard is brown
and sometimes
flies away



pancake sun
behind maple trees
fork in the road



dirt in my shoes
the earth
walks with me



poet cares for his words
feeds and waters them
they sleep next to him
curled up
and dreaming



today
I will walk the Himalayas
and it will only
take me
five lines



today
I decide
I will keep
all those wishes
I thought were mistakes



just enough
starlight
to see
what you
are thinking



I said it
in three words
you said it
with your eyes
closed..



I trade sparrows
birdseed
for company
and leftover
songs



the trail
to the woods
where I used to play
permanently cut
through my mind



no fingerprints
on the stars
though
I’ve touched them
just the same



I woke up
this morning
and my thoughts
had feathers
and sat on power lines



the dark morning
keeps me company
as I walk
scent of firewood
keeps me warm



I could not
find the words
so silence
found them
for me



I sit on the porch
and listen to red leaves
tell me stories
of when
they were green



black cat wind
tail
lashing at my face
as it hisses
in the trees



morning after halloween
two crows
re-carving the smiles
of pumpkins
on the porch



if I were a ghost
I would stand
inside you



ghosts of old dogs
sleeping
at the foot of my bed



a year of sunsets
covering the ground
beneath the maple tree



crescent moon
half my heart
in the sky



all crickets sleeping
I hum
the rest of the song



house
on a busy street
black cat
parked on the stoop
motor running



two leaves
jealous wind
one leaf



on the branch
he sings me a story
and leaves me a feather
so I will remember
how it ends



early morning
the whispered conversations
of fallen leaves



never the color
I’m supposed to be
said the stone
sparkling
in the water



I imagine a moon
in a sky I have never been
and wonder
if forever
knows I’m coming



so thin
this thing
that holds us to the tree



I kick a stone
I walked past
a thousand times
tomorrow
I will put it in my pocket



long dead cholla
holds a bird
in its hands
the desert
doesn’t know how to die



I watch the rain
drip from the roof
and for a few minutes
I forget
it will stop



crows gliding
on the edge
of the mesa..
I watch the night
coming



I throw
my troubles
into a pile of leaves



I leave
the weeds
knowing
what little time
we both have left



flag
shouting
at the wind



skeleton of a crow
on the ground
still flying
in the wind
one feather twitching



coming up
over the horizon..
another chance



I write
in words
but the sun
writes poetry
in light



tiny noses
in the belly
of the plane
never make it home
9.11



open window
breeze turns the curtains
into silent windchimes



daydreaming
your eyes
into stars



warm stone
I carry the sun
in my hand



I tell
a dogwood
sit
stay
it doesn’t move



the outline
of you
eventually becomes
the outline
of me



and for
my next trick
I will
become
myself



when I die
I will power off
without
backing up
anything



after the rain
the smell of sage
all of my memories
hidden
in the desert



my love of roses
is not in the bloom
but in the green points
that protect her
until she does



third day
on the windowsill
without moving
moth has found the light
another way



if you insist
on being a star
I must insist
that you shine
in my sky



I
was born
wireless



on plastic
I tap a wish
in tiny letters
to a silicon star
and hit send



blurred outline
against the sky
hummingbird
races twilight
home



I find
a feather
a piece of the sky
I can hold
in my hand



if you think
my poems are words
watch them
crawling
on your screen