Chilling
as the sound of the
chain clanging
against the flagpole

evidence of
what once was now is

a minimum security correctional facility

I wish the rain had a name
something like
Shiloh
that I could beg and scorn
& converse with
To take in and feed
a hot meal to
& ask
while it ate my food
whether the lakes and
Rivers it moves to
or the clouds it comes from
have different tastes
& textures
or if after so long
they blend together.

Forget yourself

said the nuthatch in passing
as it fled
from the window
Strike

Do not let the coming of
Death
concern you

Your fir trees look drunken
standing around outside the gym
waiting for the 5am rain
to roll around.

The nuthatch sees a greening of the branches;
is it Spring
or only moss?

Given the grey ice on the concrete
and the crusty frosting in the shade

Her guess is Winter's grip
on the sky
will not yet be released.

His face is painted glass
In the pink of winter

Fears that could fill these frozen rivers
soldered in goose shit on the banks

What is a man but a paper crown
eyes creased into a hundred wrinkles of laughter

his fingers tracing desperate signals in the dust
before the walls fell