Shawl Launch

Damn it if the world is just

What and as it seems to be.

A tear zips down the starred face,

A gout of light in the night,

A smear that glows and is gone,

That shows and goes with no sound.

It’s that time of year. Stars shoot.

I saw them do this one year

When I was young and in lust

And they seemed to speed like prayers,

And fall like charms, and say things

In my ear that had no sound.

That was the world in my mind.

This is the world in your mind

Now, if you’ve come this far—world

That flares, gone. Shish! There’s a star.

More Black Wings

Lost the wings lodged in the throat—

One should wait, but I have to

Write, since I’m in a daze and

I will lose them if I wait.

They don’t care. They have no need,

Not now. They can’t fly, aren’t stuck

To the back of a sad beast

Who has to fly to not die.

They’re free. They don’t need to breathe,

Wings of things lodged in my throat.

Swathes of Not Mist

Elm trees hum your God to sleep

Who has no ears but feels things.

No one knows what no one means,

And no one means what one knows,

No one needs to. What one knows

Has no need to mean. This means

What you heard in those strummed words

From elms in the most dense woods

Of black night’s drifts of banked lights,

Those trunks that moaned in God’s ears,

Can’t be true. There’s no one voice

To the wind. Fast clouds, not mist.

Lough Beagh on a Soft, Clear Day

There’s mist from the waves

And mist on the air,

But the wind is soft,

And the sky is clear.

Can you smell the grass

That lines the steep sides,

Still wet in blue skies?

It’s been a long time,

Years since I was here,

So long I’ve grown vague

And sweet as its air.

I found a hilt here,

Well sunk in dark sod’s

Moss as frail as me.

It was not my place

To tear that edge free.

Hawk Screams

Hawk screams, dove coos, and finch trills.

A wren chips and a pip squeaks.

Life is what you’ve heard of it,

Or been told of it, but not

What you’ve been told you should hear.

Never trust the line that goes,

We’re just here to help you, dear.

That’s not what you want to hear.

Hear it as you hear or don’t.

If you’ve heard of a weird sound

You’d like to hear, cock an ear.

Good? There. We’ll shut up now, dear.

Let Us Show You How to Save What's Left

Death is just a myth, you know.

If you catch it, you’ll be fine.

If you go, it was your time.

You can store your life in us,

If you stack us the right way.

We’ll save your dreams, stash your days,

So they smell as sweet and strong

When souls prise our sealed lids free

As rare oils from fresh salt seas.

Each word serves as your snug urn,

As your jar, wax-tight to air.

We’ll hold death’s myths, too. That’s fair.

The Parked Truck

There’s this man I’ve learned will park

In the spot I like to park.

Day in, day out, he drives down

The steep road in his grey truck,

Parks, checks his phone, kicks back, naps

For an hour or two, then starts

His truck with a roar and turns

Square in the road, like he dares

Who else might be on that road

To ram him smack in the side,

And then he guns straight back up,

Gone for the day. That’s his shtick.

That’s what he does. Days I’m there,

He parks as close as he can.

Days he’s first, I give him space.

We don’t speak. I tend to stroll

Off to my perch on the bluff

In the black rocks, oaks, and pines.

He stays in his truck. He does

Not catch my eye. He does not

Look up. I think we both know

One of us must be the fetch.

Daubed

Ah, sang the words on the wall,

These daubs of sun are all small

Seeds of paint that wait to find

A new home in a new mind.

If you scan us for some clue

To the days that dried these blues,

The lungs that blew our red tints,

The hands that shaped these ashed hints,

The arms held up soaked in sweat

To sketch what hides in us yet,

Your thoughts seek out the wrong spot.

Where our hosts were, we were not.

While we wait still, they’ve long gone.

You’re the dawn that draws us on.