Lepus europaeus (Pallus, 1778) in neighborhood greens

these frozen grey streets
chant about fog and 
being just on your way

they adore the sky, for
today it builds a blanket,
tomorrow an invitation

of heat or of rain, of
beauty or of scarcity, of
life or closed windows

the hare is out again
considering me, or
considering beyond me

what are these hard grounds
these infertile squares of grey
these rolling giants with eyes of light?

why does the grass
hold up its dew
to rays of light that steal?

why does the dove
sing from a fence
to birds of prey above?

i feel their instincts
a mystery in the fog
staring from all directions

i feel their questions, but
my feet stay dry
away from morning dew


if anything at all

i tried to twist these words into
the honesty i found twisting my
fingers around your body, feeling
the resistance of flesh from tendon
or ligament, til i found the place
your worries meet, hiding under
the shade where cobwebs whisper
in dew drops. here is the discovery:
it all flows through but for
half a cup, some sacrifice to the
plaques in my neurons. they scream
foul as the sun rises and, we’ve fed
them, fed them mud and
scat and dried out hay stalks.
you tried to twist your
fingers around mine and other-
wise: so what did you find?

what i can remember is

you said
you couldn’t
porches at midnight,
or how i popped
one foot
on the rail
to dream
james dean.
you didn’t know
i’d do anything
to make you stand
for nothing
and what that would
do to your eyes,
starting to wrinkle
starting to question

you said
you couldn’t
continue being
what you
never were.
how can you
stop being
what you
never started,
how can
you name
grazing my hand
at the fireplace,
or counting
garlic, or
cutouts like
our childhood
was always here?

there’s too many
cigarette butts
filling yellowing
mason jars.
jars which
cast short
on chipping
red paint.
wasted ash in
wasted words
like wasted Lot
and I
look back


at the sound of

at stoops with                  daisies
and marigolds;
that curve down.

and i
can only
the things
you wouldn’t

it happened years ago but now it sits with me, a friend after all

blades of grass
that whisper
coded lullabies,
(it also looks like
finding stars
observed on this
long mapline only)
i then counted
Regret (R.r. (L)) from
the first
down –

:  here is
a start
a wrenched
open sky
a me
as flushed
on ikea
a heaved
breath lost
a lilac
a frozen
lake’s yawn
a dry
a re
-minder or
a thousand
a reflection
in peripheral
a blank
out hour
a week

fragile shade and soft sweaters, fresh from the drier

she is there in the honeysuckle brambles
asking to draw a central line

beauty is gentle beneath her feet
and love is woven lace-tight alongside
thinly tendoned ankles

i am the man who found her there
deeply white beneath the fragile shade
asking me in silence:

//who could i be

but who could, or would, i be
when we washed off this dirt
and she left me, alone, and grown up?

she keeps the beat-up dream folded and crushed
for bright bursting afternoons slow in the polka-dot clouds
and anxiously remembering why

over, back in the shade
of another honeysuckle bramble,

my brothers and i in multitude, frozen in evening lounge
we glance at each other
smell licorice
and think about winter lights, fences,
and when we had the dream tucked in our backpocket

anytime i’m lost i find you there

times pass and i’ve thought
of loving you underneath whispers

by the river before sunrise, dew

sunlight like a crown around these citied jewels
blue orange navy. green.

please unwrap the strings from these arms.

i’ve thought of you past aging
trees and thoughtless colleagues teaching me otherwise
sing about beauty in daylight
perfumes made from lavender and lilac
and bathtubs of isopropyl alcohol.

your heart though is primordial
and beats to whisper shivering sand off rafters.

the secret is there in foggy grey and blue,
shimmering lives being kept elsewhere,

and from there i’ll draw out from you,
the beauty known in such moments

intimacy only for those who love at sunrise.

An early spring morning

Below the thin ice another world waits. Here brown-black leaves, sunk to the lake floor, wait for brighter days and warmer water. In the warmth they’ll finally dissolve, finally break free from the bond to material reality and enter the world of energy, of theoretical molecular shapes and eventual entropic mess. But for now they’ll wait, and somewhere else fish wait as well, certainly in deeper and darker waters and below ice more than just a millimeter thick. All that keeps me warm is a cup of coffee, exploding out steam from the top. It tastes like mud and oil, so I drink it everyday.

Along the shore are some birch trees. They stand in a huddled line like a herd of deer budging for a drink at the lake. Their newest branches spring forth with a skin of dark red and purple, straining up and out. In the morning sun it’s as though blood pumps deep underneath translucent skin as a testament to the story inside us all.

Above a pair of bald eagles briefly flies over the lake, just a few times. They are on their morning route, searching for open lakes, where the curtain of ice has draped back to allow their hungry talons to skim their surfaces, ready to sink themselves deep into the piscean flesh they’ve craved all winter. The lake is not ready to give up its bounty, though. They seem indifferent to the situation and soon glide on to other grounds.

I am a visitor here. Soon my coffee has completed its job and my body calls me to somewhere warmer. A breeze picks up the cold off the ice and feathers my face. So it is, and ought to be.