Day 66

the waxing moon gazes upward
eye of an exhausted parent
exasperated and watchful

Day 67

contemplate then how we
only we, on this side
of the flood wall

understand
the floating of the world

Day 68

this soup, life
marked by mud
called memory

Day 69

1.

overnight, the fox ran north
up the wharf, chasing life
between patches of darkness
on pools of artifical light

2.

an afternoon storm
the timber of spring thunder
rain on the back porch roof
the sound of ten thousand
tiny marching boots

Day 70

o moon contract into a round lead shot

the world is a gun barrel / am I eye

or target / or am I the bullet

waiting for blood and light

Day 71

rain always splits me
in half. I want to drink coffee

smoke my pipe, sit on the back porch or stand
leaning against in the doorway of an open garage door

count one-mississippi / two between
thunder clap and lightning

listening to the storm.