Life in the Park

In the park Like-a-Hawk watches

the path, cracks in the hedge,

looks ever closer until the least litter

gives up secrets. The head-downs

leave nothing behind, clean the cracks

in concrete, trim flaws in the hedge,

fuss litter into bags, clear a path

under Like-a-Hawk’s ever-watchful eye,

they hang out by the dumpster. Dandelion, thistle

and chickweed come to the park

like scattered clouds, find a breach

in the manicure and set root

under the ever-watchful. Head-downs gather

like a herd of red cows

that don’t know what to think of weeds

in the park. In the park, the look–throughs

enter the breach, push flowers to the ground,

load roots into the dumpster, leave nothing behind

but nasty stink. Clouds turn dark

and look like something

I’ve never seen before,

the weeds throw off their costume,

put up a banner, they’re not leaving.

In the park Like-a-Hawk watches.

Both Hands

A newly-minted sergeant wakes
to a quiet daybreak, too quiet,

outside in the clear air
he watches a grenade come in

like the volleyball
at his deployment barbeque.

Newly-Minted jumps with hands
held high and slaps down,

red sauce splatters,
red splatters held high.

Twisting Angels

It’s too hot to sleep, I’m too tired
to think hard, I poke the dirt
with a stick, turn over a rock
and find more dirt.

Uncle Phil twists a handful of straw
into a horse for the kids to play,
Phil twists an angel for Marita,

The old hound dog pokes his nose at a beetle.

The River of Stars streams across the sky
from headwaters in the vastitudes
to black holes where stars go to die.

Uncle Phil thinks out loud,
"Do you suppose the hound dogs in the stars
play with beetles?" "No," says Marita,
"they play with angels.”

In Twelve Words

an old wheezing bull,
cold rain water dribbling
down his black side

~

burrows walk around naked,
dark in the troubled night
they dream clothes

~

a cold note
in the kitchen,
‘I bought walking shoes
for you’

~

lemming doesn’t see hawk
fly in from behind
as I don’t you

~

I stir the broom
so I don’t drift
away like a boat

Rest in Peace

Lightening bolts of passion

take the easy path

and burn out the wiring

to Mike’s center. He dies

of a broken heart

in nineteen sixty-seven,

and again in nineteen

eighty-three, and eighty-eight

this time for real, and nineteen

ninety-three, and again two

thousand six, and two weeks ago

at the Thai restaurant in Aberdeen.

Mike is resting comfortably

and not expected to last long.

The Naming Of Things

We name him
Rin-Tin-Tin
so he’ll be faithful,
and he is,
so he’ll be brave,
and he is,
so he’ll be intelligent,
and he is.

We enroll him
in school,
children mock
his name,
chase him home,
he bites one
on the leg.

We name his sister
Lassie,
and she is.

Sandstone and Water

Jennifer and I rub against each other
like the sandstone and water
that shape Antelope Canyon
into auburn curves and dark hollows.

The canyon's allure is at the wall's surface
where substance yields to space,
slickrock contours in the star-lit night.

At the canyon mouth
raven's twilight song echoes
on a fresh breeze,
reaches into the auburn and the dark.

Inbox Ku

invest in gold,
weight loss and Viagra –
a long exasperated sigh

~

her name
twenty-six times in Sent
Inbox - zero

~

a nine megabyte attachment –
meditate on tolerance
and dialup

~

debris collects
on the doorstep
to the highway

~

a cup of wine
in the moonlight –
no new messages

Butler Wash

In the upper reaches of Butler Wash I drop
my pack on the slickrock, spread out
the sleeping bag, take off frozen boots,
make a boot-pillow for my head-heat
to thaw, I wake six, eight, nineteen times

in the night, I’m still awake when morning sun
lights up the Manti La Sals. I put on the thawed boots,
stamp my feet to dull the pain, and try to hike
enough in a nine hours to sleep fifteen.

In a shaded side canyon the snow evaporates
and refreezes on the sweet willows in a row
of fragile ice-crystal slabs that thin-tinkle when they fall
like dominoes, like the ancient ones who don’t know
they’re going extinct, they evaporate and refreeze

on the canyon wall. The setting sun doesn’t see
yesterday’s shadows creep out of crevices and cracks,
slide down a rock face, spread out
and fill the canyon. I drop my pack,
spread the sleeping bag on the canyon floor,

take off frozen boots, make a boot-pillow,
sit under a cottonwood’s bare branches and stare
at the rocks. I feel fragile, like the next domino
getting ready to tumble. My breath evaporates,
I don’t think I’m going extinct, but it’s on my mind.

Night Wind

The night mountain has deep cold,
heavy wind, the small trees huddle
like small people, grow to fit their place,
their centers lean, grow crooked,
twisty to stay alive.