A Mess of Shade for Meat

Me down here, with old cow pies,
Deer scat, dead leaves, dirt, dust, flies—

Plonked in my camp chair that folds
And I can put on my back

And make it a few yards more
From the car to some scrub oaks

Or a shade pine by the side
Of a dirt road—I’m in here,

And to me I’m not the ghost,
These words—and you—are the ghosts,

And I’m a beast like the crow
That spots me and comes to look

In case I’ve dropped the goods. Nope.
No corpse here. Crows don’t eat ghosts.

We’ll Be Down to Bare Bones Soon

It’s been a long, hot year
Down here. The woods this fall
Are more browned bronze than gold.

Some days I make these poems,
Like meals for one or two,
Quick, with a bit of care,

Just to eat, since I do.
Just a meal. I like it
This way. No fans, plain fare.

But fall does tend to bring
Blues with all the warm hues.
Don’t lie. You’ve felt it, too.

There’ll be guns in these woods,
Soon, and deer on the roads,
And work to do. Same old,

Same old. In fall, wild game
Serve fair game for the tame.
What meat’s left on these names?

Let This Be a Sign

Poems are one way
The world turns gold

To lead word slugs
You can line up

To ink, to print,
To read, to melt.

These words tell me
That’s not quite right

And less than kind,
But I ask you,

What have you known
That was pure sign

That meant to you
Half what blue means?

Drive Soft, the Light Fades

One who would not do one thing
Danced in his sleep where he sat
And dreamed of how he’d steal words,

And not try to save his life.
He might drown in his own spit.
He might wake up dead and small

And find that he does not care.
He might read a book, a line
Like a life line, and take it

And haul on it, as if this
One act could pull him to shore,
Out of his dream to the day.