o, i forgot

o, i forgot
to write

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west of eden

on this side of the
prelude to spring, all of that
secret world is gone

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sunset

i know you’ll forget
but the sunset is golden
against the bare elms

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green jello

every year the dish looms before me on the thanksgiving buffet, its lurid contents lurking, watching for the next innocent plate to appear.

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sehnsucht

sometimes the light
hits the golden leaves
just so, and i forget to breathe

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another poem written

distress is what i feel at the thought
of four poems yet to be written
when it would have been ideal
to have had them done a week ago

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the trouble with poetry (& poets)

billy (bless him) says
the trouble with poetry
is that it inspires the writing
of more poetry

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the wild garden

all the flowers in the wild garden
have yielded their spirits to autumn’s chill
and become dry brown ghosts, their seeds
falling out of cracked heads and cones

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rime

i woke one morn in winter past
the world still hushed and sleeping fast

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tell me one thing before you go

tell me one thing before you go
— i would not ask you to stay —
what’s the sweetest thing you know?

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