Day 46
the great weeping sky arrives
reminding us where the heart lies
and where the machine takes hold
leaving blood and bone cold
for stolen currency
Day 47 (haiku)
this wet season
we float / sink as critters
forgot the bones
Day 46
the great weeping sky arrives
reminding us where the heart lies
and where the machine takes hold
leaving blood and bone cold
for stolen currency
Day 47 (haiku)
this wet season
we float / sink as critters
forgot the bones
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

Day 37
dream dream of the great world’s drowning
even these monuments of bone
and erased names upon which
sand castles stand
the penitent man prays for gills knowing
there is no salvation except to dive deep
Day 38
speak then, sermonizing bird
speak of wings, a world
floating on clouds: currents upon currents
centuries filtered to an icy deep
I dream I am floating on a river of fire.
I know the boatman’s first true name.
Day 39
this cup of tea, a respite
Lord, my gills are tired
Day 40
cast these prayers out
on the driftwood and flotsam
what is faith on the floating world
just another abandoned Styrofoam cooler
we are encircled by a moat of crucifixions
waiting for christs to submit
