Six Poems

The Springfields

Lead drips out of
a burning farm rail.
Their Civil War.


Daylight Cloth

September morning. White is salient.
The unfocussed wet hover of dawn
has cleared the treetops. In high bush
the ski season packs up, tent by tent,

and the Cherokee rose, its new seams
hitched up rather than pruned,
overlaps its live willow easel,
a daylight cloth pelted in white creams.

Minute blossoms of fruit
emerge from lichen’s brown wheeze
that has gathered in their trees.
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