sax solo
of his eyes
only the white

behind an old hut
I drink from the well
of the Past.

nowhere
to go—the old guitar,
and rain song

orange harvest
the passing train takes
the sweet scent

Too much grief
quietly I oil and sharpen
the old chainsaw

a morning glory
covered with spider’s web
one or two fly wings too

like an unexpected
leafage, your tongue
encircles me

dense fog . . .
    I dream walk
my sense of I

The coot careful
as if tomorrow is sane.
Ripples in a pond

winter evening
a voice greeting a neighbor
sounds like my own

Anzac Day
a baby’s cry fills
our minute’s silence

afternoon beach
the young lovers cast
a single shadow

Work on the page:
ink, white, erasures, copy, words.
Quick, quick, go and pee.

after the rain:
the river
its weight

clock tower
here the wind
never stops

between the echoes
of our voices
our voices

pioneer cemetery
here and there a name
faces heaven

Fierce blizzard
frozen flowers on the glass . . .
your hot breath

Cenotaph
a plane tree leaf falling
on a muffled drum

     over the yard
  intertwined fragrances of
the grill and cherry

twilight
the shadows
overshadowed

convalescence:
on my fingers the smell
of tangerines

roasting sun
the egret's measured steps
in buffalo shadow

Behind the procession,
the scent of the flowers
crushed underfoot

The buzzards,
from the antenna, watch
the sunset

breakfast
in bed
your raisin cinnamon kiss 

the river
the river makes
of the moon

dreary afternoon 
a carp in the park pond snaps 
at a speck of sun

off the stone
drop by drop the sea returns
to the sea

a shooting star —
no time for a wish,
only her name