at dawn, the soul-scratching
of janitors' shovels . . .
stops

The drawing on the cup
almost erased
with your lips

frosty 
you told me a big cloud 
I’ll answer with a small one

thaw drip                                   
little girls on the bench
swing their legs

sparrows get loud.
just about time to smell 
hot pancakes

Sunny spring day —
the retriever brings me a stick
thrown by someone else.

the sun is higher
a fisherman brushes
the scale from his hand 

Notebooks with poems —
I tear them joyfully
for paper ships!

April
a typo in every line
of a young typist

spring street noises
in the empty classroom
a music teacher

end of may
the wardrobe door
creaks again

How the maple has grown!
Unwittingly I touch
The bristles on my cheeks.

Even from the gutter,
Even beaten and drunk —
I still admire the moon!

fried herring’s smell
in the vietnamese dorm
what a long evening!

I walk for water
and chamomile heads beat
the bottom of my bucket.

cloudy . . .
piece by piece, my mind gathers
a full moon 

a bird cry outside —
I turn my back
on drunken buddies

summer rain
acronyms blacken
on the bannister

old swing
so easily
to childhood and back

I too am not local —
planting a sprouted acorn
by a palm tree

phone book . . .
removing the dead
geranium leaves

cranes flying south . . .
one dress from the drying rope
has disappeared

Leaves fallen
but flowers now seen
in the opposite house

The sun is gone.
An old lady walks
to a different bench.

gloomy morning
the sock is darned
with motley threads

Two pine trees
greet each other
with a squirrel’s jump

thick snow
filling a gap in the fence
with silence

bitter cold
pulling itself from the street
an endless cat

Heavy snowfall,
Three snowmen in the park
and one glass.

minus twenty
in my voice
father’s tones