Deep sleep’s a black hole



Her grandfather’s shed;

gasoline, oily rags, rust

and harness leather.


She slips something under a stone.



No trumpets

Sleeping under stars


Approach awareness of God

cautiously. Like waking in a dream.


There are no trumpets. The light is vague.


Ignore the weight of your wings

as you climb the stairs, wade to the window.


Gargoyle crouch on the stone-damp ledge


between landscapes. Listen; spider

dangling-drop-spins into an empty nest.



No immediate threat

Toxic Winds


Close and latch the windows tight. Catch your breath.

Eyes watery red. Curse the rasp and phlegm.


Baby’s born with a shadow on her lungs.


Horns honk. Streets are lined with painted signs. Protest.

But there’s no proof. Just anecdotes. Civil unrest.


That’s the smell of jobs and cash. Sulfur. Steam. Some dust.


Long John straightens his tie, signs another cheque.

The phone rings. Still no immediate threat.





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This weekend, I started writing. Agnes said, “Let’s go.” We went. Paddled. Pitched the tent. Decided to sleep under the stars. Heard loons, owls and coyotes. Thought we could more-or-less spend the rest of our life in that moment. Got up early and paddled back. Saw some loons. Made it home in time for the protest.


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There was a wood duck along the way.

Pond still.


A chorus of terns, black-hooded gulls

and one goldfinch in the bushes.


Eventually she left.

The audience was over and I was dismissed.


I always thought it was my dream, but was wrong.

I’m just here. Eyes, fingertips. Something exhaled.


One long breath; then drawn back home.