Poems

Poem

   The morning weaves
A piece of bone
   To a branch of fingers,
But the rain
   Blurs the sea-shift
Twists the cone,
   And now this hand
Is bone again.


Death in Lyndale Avenue

Step-laddered to where I can't
   Be my own compasses, I
   Measure the years ahead by
The white windows I'll paint.

Doors, walls, ceilings, all-
   Year after year I've snow-stormed over,
   Though each spring stiffer, the spring fever
Jerks me where white flakes fall

Round my hot head. Yesterday,
...