Day 41

it wears on, the day into night
will the moon appear in the western sky

on it’s climb up the horizon
or are we trapped under cloud cover

the hint of of more rain, the wind
carrying back the scent of gas heat

Day 42

the wet season, this mid-February
we check the sump pit and talk

about this year’s garden. I dream of mountains
a life far away from urban noise

worry soaks into my skin like rain
and to live I must turn myself

into a sieve just to stay afloat
as my gills are in the shop again

Day 43

no slouch, no: these days are not for the complacent
we mark old maps in the name of lost books

there are no prophets south of the 42nd parallel
and none north of the bend in the river

while we wait we tell one another stories
of some world that we dreamt of in 1988

Day 44

chase sleep and avoid the lung-rattling cough
these are a truncated form of meditation

do count the traffic of falling watermarks, rewriting
along the way, the stone walls

the composite art of driftwood

Day 45

embrace the deep cold night
keep the lights on for better vision

these wings, clouds and wooden-framed bones