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
   domesticity.