Yellow Jacket Press recently published my chapbook, A Little Book of Light History.
It can be purchased here.
Summer Evening, Hopper 1947
Someone is firing rockets
across the water
too far away to hear.
save one for a flock of larks in flight,
one for an emperor turned dragon.
The lake greedily collects the sparks
in her dark apron then walks to the basement.
erasing the exploding rockets from view.
She refuses a cigarette. He explains
his temper using words neither of them understand.
His hands flare like chrysanthemums.
Someone stands firm,
testing how closely they can withstand
the phosphor of night.
The neighbor grows giant pumpkins
in his backyard that swell
to the size of Holsteins.
The extras culled, each vine
bears a single fruit
resting on thick cotton mats,
each named for a pagan god.
He tends to them patiently;
times his sun lamps,
trickles filtered water
at calculated rates.
Midday, he erects gauzy tarps
to keep the flesh from scalding.
At midnight, his shed lights
from within and soft music drifts
through the yard. He walks among them,
as a visitor from another continent
wanders in a geologic wonder,
on the lookout for vicious beetles
who come soaring on lapis wings.
Sometimes he weeps quietly
for one god rotting within
or for the moon on orange skin
while his children, exhausted from weeding,
Except for the cinquefoil and coontie,
you are the oldest of life here.
A collusion of dark water and Cambrian leather,
and perfected the blank stare.
you watched the lizard sprout feathers
and leap for the first time from its heavy limbs.
conceals an ivory of knowledge
I am better off not learning.
you let me pass so close, so close.
on whose shore this is, whose sleepy
palm this is, whose silver mullet
are leaping so brightly into the air.