Black Haun an the Weaver

Coin spun the air aroon’t an fell on the blue tattoo.
Black Haun cleek’t his bluebird ower the silver’t nickel.
He bade Chaunce to spik afore the Law steps in
tae spik o gravity, averages, diminishin returns.

then there is mystery

then there is the mystery
of upward-falling rain
how eyes become prisms
bending tomorrow’s light

Mother

Chiming,
the bells ring for necessity,
crying from their hearts:
who’s there, who’s not,
who was, was never.

in times of isolation

in times of isolation hear
lone strings vibrate feel
air on your face remember
the shape of crowds moving

breeze

wind blows from the east
(no longer an ill wind) and the west
discretely coughs behind its hand

I don’t remember shit

I don’t remember, I don’t recall,
I got no memory of anything at all*…

Avenue

Was it sun in the pine trees,
or cypress branches feathered
under snow? or, in the frost,
hemlock needles remembering
lemon-scented spring-time?