As Things Are
Pink and glistening umbilicus
writhes blindly among the peony roots.
Tiny, scarlet-feathered dinosaurs
pull it wriggling from the soil.
I grin and bare my pacu teeth
and watch with my chimpanzee eyes.
Driving on an August Evening
Cicada’s hacksaw jabber storming
the air of Highway 46, tree-song
and dusk-wind and engine-hum,
Brown County’s sunset burning
behind us, the clouds fire-misty
and smoking like barges steaming
for westward ports, the night
ignited, her eyes afire her
smile wide the pines melting
against that deep Rothko sky—
berries, bonfires, red lips, gold corn.
On a Ferry for Beaver Island, MI
The horizon a smooth edge
of a turquoise bowl,
waves of crumpled paper.
Azure bliss of namelessness,
wave-carried beneath the clouded dome.
The world a simplicity of blue and white,
a growing beach of green.