Dry Spell, and: Home Song, and: Stand-In for a Shooting Star

Dry Spell

the      sky             wasEve     r clear andc          her     ry                          Kool-A  idpurge   able   fade    d       Half-rem  embered    redscar    let         on a           di              et of ski        m milkwater                melon w    here the flesh     m            eets the rind

But the sun       (in last nigh    t’s dress)   he       ave    s itselfo    ver h     ills       and powerli  nes     rising still    a                                  bove      the          butter              scotch       pin  e show                                             er                                            ingthe d        us     t  with c          aye     nne                                  rain

Home Song

Up north, pinned behinda steering wheel, whistling overthe rooftops and cooling towers, limpingunder the auburn skirts of street lampsin the early morning light,grinning, wagging, stripping paint like turpentine,cracking the panes of the busted windows,speed walking through the suburbs, standing still,hands tucked into coat pocket, sinking into sleepas easy as a tire iron tossed into new snow, icewhere there once was a river, black ice now,river unwritten, unsung, one-way street, thick with fresh snow,untouched, sadness streaming from the cityto the next town where it is also white, upthe street where people in houses are just startingto wake, hi-beams chasing around the roomthe shadows and third-shift eyes.

Stand-In for a Shooting Star

static on the screen of an old TV            steel shavings,            mercury                          a streak of rain catching the light                                     a fork of lightening prodding the night            a drip, a flash, God’s losta faucet’s splash in the curve of a spoon                          spit curl on the face of the moon                                     a dot, a dash                          a smear of snot            a comet’s tail, cum shot                          in a cup of black coffee, a half-and-half swirla run in the stocking worn by a dead girl