you roam the house
with your fantastical
furies agitating the dogs
in the desolate light
of your ashen eyes,
red lava runs in your
mind's eye tearing down
each plush forest
with a ruin known
only by volcanoes.
you stalk like a lion,
meditating as the cold
last summer's poppies
are all imbedded in ice –
frost polishes the hole
of my pain.
Winter festers beneath the cold blood of it –
The stark white moon has nothing to do with this.
The squirrels are scant and grow weary of this
Lamenting snow tossing layer after layer
Until everything is as pure white as an eggshell.
Mornings dissolve into silence.
The sun fails us.
Plentitude has no mother here.
I have been published in over 60 magazines and journals
including The Endicott Review, Abbey, Iconoclast, Nerve
Cowboy, Mobius, and many others.