Are you the one onto whom
Silence and dreams unfold?
I’m too sober for this
I’m not sure I’m welcome here
I might go further
At the estuary
Downstream from here
there is a tale of sparrows fallen,
opened as dream-scape wanderers
on a weekend beyond the edge,
Un-entitled
Yesterday, when I was a boy,
a grey-legged heron fished the wharf
streaming Rachmaninov in F major
flat they were, those golden gifts, although
An august morning
The sandpaper lick of meadow grass
sheds a prickly cascade
as we brush along cloven paths.
Blueprints that boot-heels cross…