Digital Literature

Trout Season

2005-05-22T12:14:00.000-07:00

Rows of yellow and blue spangled lures lay belly up in the box
above the crimped lines and hooks
dulled in the tough mouths of trout.

I cannot shake this morning from my hands
to tie that special knot that tightens with weight.
My fingers are strange with the weather,
too cold to thumb the lighter.

Across the creek granite cliffs sneak into the water
embarassed by the sound of it, each wet lap giving them up:
their secret wish to be already sand, deep beneath uncatchable fish
or laid out in ribbons against the grass.

The statuary of the Tawanee were carefully molded for this:
hands piously folded at the hips, heads bent
with coals burning towards stone lips.
I am irreverently jealous, the thin paper sticks to my lips unlit
as I wrestle with the tackle and a tiny bit of rock slips off
unnoticed, downstream towards a particular fate.

Fireworks

2005-04-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

Beneath the umbrella of light she is a Chagall -
lyric, ornamental; fine glass
or porcelain, warm from handling.

Tentacles of neon whip into wisps.
A cool wind from the corners of her mouth,
the first drop of rain against my thigh.

Deer panic, run in every direction.
Sulfur and field grasses scent the soft cotton of her shirt.

February Poems

2005-04-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, riding the long flat roads of Illinois,
your cheek against rough and musty fabric,
shoes half off, heels on the sandy floor,

sunlight works it’s heat into creases
around closed eyes, the bright red world quietly rings,
you secretly believe it isn't winter.

II

Warm air recedes into the house.
An early spring in the rain gutter
clambers drowsily overhead.

Head down like a winter bough
you're rubbing your bare arms, hunched against
the mud suck sound of your boots in the lane.

New ruts follow you to the main road, on either side
thin antennas of grass are testing the air.

III

Each room has its own quiet;
water in the radiator, an unmade bed,
the pressure of the wind against the windowpane.

The afternoon sun makes rooms seem larger,
everything is weightless in the beam.
The whole house smells of the rot of spring.