my
eyes that
would hear silence

are

as hard-wired
for tragedy

as an old Buick
built
on Friday
after
four p.m.

through air
thin
as dimes and dreams

but are due

a touch
of lemon-yellow

moon

birches
bid me

walk on water

icicles
drip

with

anticipation

a hush

on
the other side

of time

The line goes taut.
Face turns from surprise
to exhilaration.
Five years of fishing
has honed the skills,
the give and take,
the shift of weight,
the steady, concentrated,
winding of the reel.
In all that time,
the fish has learned nothing.

Alarm bell resounds –
a deep light enters here,
puts honey in my cheeks –
window garden
shirrs a wedge of sun –
a dream falls over the edge,
lands noiselessly
amid my coming thoughts –
scattered traffic fills
pockets of silence –
it is seven a.m.

One solitary whistle,
in the distance,
late at night,
is enough to
take you places.

who, but I, thinks
of the shattered eardrums of pigeons

exhaustion throttling down to plum blossoms

there’s a worldwide allegory of the cell, 
and Play-Doh turns to stone overnight

the wind is showing the work
in the margins of her long division

everyone’s in handcuffs on the front lawn
and I’m panicked about pesticides on clover