The gods did it first, changed
the most desirable, recalcitrant,
women into cows or trees, left them
on their own, stuck in mud, or free
to wander, wail to indifferent ears
their untranslatable sounds,
though when you hear the rustle or moo
you'll recognize discontent that even
adorned with flowers, ribbons, bells,
no mulching or milking will satisfy.
You don't ask, when you bellow politics,
why I murmur Mmmmm, mmmmmm...
You don't notice how the wisteria vine
you regret we planted has stretched
and crept throughout the willow oak
to strangle branches with lavender fire.
.
.
To Top
..
.
.
~
Fog More Blank Than Sky
no sky only gray
fog horns surround
sounds bounce in fog
fog too unstable
to write upon
four large letters
H E L P
we cannot see
or navigate
beyond fog banks
the scheming moon
brings tidal floods
fractious currents will
drag our raft far out
onto restless rocks
what bells or buoys
red or green lights
could change the tide
like death fog hides
what churns beyond
what ploughs our sea
scrimmed in fog
tanker ferry ocean liner
blindly speed
run our craft
of willow oak
under down
or fog unveils
uncharted shoals
what foreign ports
.
.
