The handiwork of wisdom

“What you think is the point is not the point at all but only the beginning of the sharpness.” 
- Flann O'Brien, The Third Policeman

cowboys playing cowboys

Rocks on fire against

Open sky, a cowboy smokes
Wilds turned location

Imaginary

I've been asked to see

God in almost everything

Imaginary.

Cracks that are also Canyons

Small veins in concrete

Their shadows fall magnified -

Light is fixed just now.

cimitir

Gums surround bared teeth
Sucked back, waiting to fight. Us,
small trees in a field.

eastern winds

unease, familiar

eastern winds unsettle bones -

windchimes sound the change.

quadrille

I remember a good friend’s tattoo

Creating star charts with her own freckles -

Seems a better use of space.

Dolly Parton sings about leaving

Our palms touch as we weave quadrille

Breathless, dance and count, unfettered.

The record skips from reckless stomps

We roar and snake, uncaring.

The tea steeps near my

Waiting, freckled arms

And I am tempted to dip my wrist towards

the steaming kettle.

I look to the aquarium-green room,

Not a shimmer of that gaiety remains

But I beat out the counts with my spoon -

One, two. One, two.

Walk to the doors and be sure they are bolted

One, two

Shake up the dust, let it find new homes

One, two

Measure the sounds and turn all to silent

One, two

If it isn’t heard, it isn’t seen, it isn’t true.