Poetry

The little girls invade the lawn
stalking their prey with mason jars poised,
seeking the ever-elusive lights
yet trapping air again and again.

as if pale doves lit
my kitchen with their wings
beating smoke

My son claims
when it suits him
that he is afraid of birds.

Two doors down
Tom Doyle mulches his garden
Two doors down
Tom Doyle mulches his garden
his wife works inside
dusting and vacuuming. His motorcycle
sits silent. In imagination
I take the bike for a ride.

Slow anguish filters dustily
through cracks in the pavement above

Light gets cruelly overworked. Sweet June
comes last, pentameter’s fifth stress,
almost always rhymed with good old moon

Like waves lapping the surf,
ruffled white petals
of brush strokes converge
at the core, where luminous
lavender radiates outward.

I am crossing the street
and the cars are coming too fast
as in a cartoon or a dream.