The report said,
        “Mildly deviated septum,
        otherwise normal sinuses.”

He remembered age four,
        excited, impatient,
Standing 3 steps up
        a concrete porch,
Holding a celluloid tube
        of tiny candy balls.

He’d seen older kids do this,
        even sharing once,
And now his chance
        to pry the plug
With wild fingers,
        only to spill everywhere —

His haste-driven dive
        to reverse the effects
Of gravity on plunging spheres,
        found his nose resting
On the sidewalk below,
        where he bellowed bad luck.

Soon, clinging
        to his mother’s neck,
As she wiped
        his blooded face,
He complained only
        about broken fortune.

His nose was quickly forgotten
        for a lifetime,
Until x-rays penetrated
        his memories,
Of sweet loss rolling away,
        yet still desired.

Memory Number One

He was 4 or 3,
        at the edge of memory,
When he saw a dead possum
        in the road.

For 80 years it visited
        his thoughts;
Nothing before —
        not a mother’s loving gaze,
        not a father’s good cheer,

Just a tail carelessly touching
        a bloodied nose,
And two button eyes, staring
        at god, at him,
        at nothing.


Egg tottering,
        nest ruptured by careless wind,
        future flight’s dashed promise,
        embryonic wings unformed.

Bird ghost’s
        first and last airborne arc,
        parabolic to slate below,
        shattered shell and yellow stain.

Surprised child
        stops, curious, then home
        crying in fear, chased by
        angry mother cawing grief.

Colors on a Morning Stroll

He saw, on his morning walk,
        a house with cobalt walls
        and pink eves,

But, on drawing closer…
        the eves became brown
        and the walls, gray.

He thought about imagination
        and the word ‘image’ 
        almost within it.

He had, as always, a goal in mind,
        but this route was chaotic,
        random with bias.

He chanced on a stick
        in a gutter,
        long, straight, lanceolate.

And imagined two spears,
        one pink,
        one cobalt,

Except the pink was really
        like a filet
        of wild Atlantic salmon,

And the blue was 
        like sparks of
        violet and green.

He saw two knights
        rushing each other,
        red pike, blue pike…

And stumbled at the sign, 
        his goal,
        “Matmor Rd”.

Mata mor,
        mata moro, 
        kill Moor.

He drifted to the Crusades —
        his fifth-grade teacher
        described their futility;

Yet, he later read
        about the 200-year 
        Kingdom of Jerusalem,

Probably not so futile
        to the knightly order
        for a long time.

She also remarked
        on the Moorish failure
        in Iberia,

But, the Caliphate endured
        600 years, three times
        my country’s age.

Images returned —
        the Knight Templar, 
        the Saracen knight;

He thought 
        perhaps that 
        was the whole point,

To impale each other
        on beautiful lances,
        salmon and electric,


Autumn Trees

Would it be lying 
       to speak of autumn trees,
       specifically, the Plane,
Looming in plains so strange
       as resemble Mars
       or Enceladus,
When in fact we see
       in plain sight
       the Plane itself?

On Yellow

Despair of yellow if you wish —
The taint of 
   choleric bile,
   Midas’ daughter,
   snow pee,
   jaundiced eyes.
While Orpheus’ golden lyre 
      went to Hell and back,
   sunlight echoed on dayend clouds,
   towheads ran on Baltic sand,
   dandelions colored my hand.
Jacob’s stairs still ascend 
   — presumably to Heaven —
But who waters the geraniums?

Taste of Wild

Yes, it’s better than glass —
   a hard, cold
   divide from reality.
I can feel the breeze,
   rain falls and I am wet,
   squirrels fear my smell,
   jays rail at my presence.
But, there’s still this matter of
   nylon, a millimeter thick,
   a soft cage of unwanted

Primitive Creature

Early morning fogs
   rose from the river.

He waded through an eddy of
   warmth swirling slowly 
between bank and goal,
a heavily wooded island, 
   cloud hidden,
Spanish mossed limbs 
   opal curtains.

He felt time evaporate
   a hundred million years
as he entered the past earth.
and knew the river damp smell 
   was once familiar
   to a dinosaur,
that nothing had changed,
that his particular world's
   sights and sounds 
   were truant.

Reaching shore, he had
   no idea how close he was
   to the nest of guarded eggs,
as she burst forth through fog,
   the Great Blue Heron, 
screaming in the 
   very rasp of God,
   a cry so terrible
that he became a 
   wee twitchy creature, 
   scurrying to evade
scaly winged masters
   of this new world. 

Lunar Eclipse

"I'm sorry about the Moon...", he said.
"Oh! What an interesting sentence!",
        she replied,
smiling with unexpected delight.
Love illuminated them
in the recovered lunar glow.