Higgledy, Piggledy
Sundries and sundrops
The women of Windsor
Tipped off Lady Welby
Her hat was a mobile
So metaphorically
She should be throwing
Her head like a frisbee

hearing old things
old songs
from other people’s voices
and other rooms
in the building
behind stained glass
and the confessional
the garden where the conductor
had his heart attack
in the English lavender bushes
old language
was spoken then
and the lights dimmed
the curtain pulled
and chairs shifted
in the whispering hall
subtle creaks
warm tones
red violas
quick now
the quince’s pinches
also flower

for Christina

so it goes
with butterflies and crows
spring is the time
where they
lend you their wings
so that you can fly
to your nest of yarn
a home
safe from the cats
who prowl in the shape of
tax collectors
and union busters
who play shadow warrior
with uranium and plutonium
and purchase
advertisements on the box
we all watch
so that you
forget
get distracted
fill up with apathy
and buy the next
awful thing
for your nest
so small
and precious
got to
make sure
it stays that way and not get cluttered
with other people’s junk
or other cat’s bones
you’d rather leave alone
so you can fly
make your load light
’cause you can’t change the world
but you sure can
change the way you live

scent of rock rose
in the rain
I cross the bridge
like Orpheus did
(if the office is Hades)
trying not to look back
but then I feel white
as a pillar of sal
t
a statue, I stop
at the memory of her face
in her father’s arms
on the porch
bleak and exhausted
on this night of no sleep
if I was to run back
I would clasp
her infant shape
to my breast and rest
all day

trilogy of care:
feeding, sleeping, diapering
four month Zephyr babe

The sky was thick with heat
We biked until our lungs filled

With moisture and collapsed
Like wet paper

On the roadside to
Take a photo of a barn

And corn ears that lifted
The clouds and shined

Just as bright
As the sun

pulling down curtains
I leaned over the typewriter
sparks   round   holes
and fire   I dragged the rug
in the kitchen   a bucket
water   The typewriter did not
my face   hands   the heat from the caldera
yellow fire   fast    roaring
rumbling   grinding noise
my bucket, of course, not aflame

Thoughts: my
pay attention to be
too tired

I
am
am
I
skip
the
skipping
a
day
sonnet
today
no sonnet
ok?
ok?

This is about all I have: to eat
this cookie on the porch and drink
some tea while she sleeps. I know
its been a rough day when he calls me
three times at work, each call
with a scream in the background
a sort of backdrop to the day.
The sound of her wails
give a strange taint to the sky
though it is finally blue
after a long long winter. On Saturday
we weeded the garden boxes
and bought soil for the vegetable seeds.
During one of the many hours of nursing
I learned on a gardening program
that daffodils never lose their potency
(unlike tulips); they will always bloom;
flower forever. I’d like to be like that.