fall (the scent of summer

there is dust on the typewriter,
scattered letters & no coherent
words, the dog lays a little to the
left & outside the sun speaks to
fallen leaves, to say as much
as a decent goodbye, frost &
bugs that live in the bark of
a half fallen tree cling to the last
scent of summer, a spider crawls
down the street on two legs & as
the rain begins to fall, windows
leave marks on the floor & a carton
of milk stands two weeks old

untitled waves

the coast arrives over dunes, water sinks into sand, across in waves that touch the edge of skin, a crab moves underwater & dissipates, feet leave & reappear, wading out into the taste of salt, a communion of currents & trees that bend towards shallow water

the stories of: (Fred

the picture of a girl-like doll
hangs to his right, white
shirt & strong beer,

cataract eyes wet the
world with stories about
life just barely lived,

hands fold right over left,
birds chirp & stories

he rubs eyebrows in recollection,
words mix with the
static of tv,

dusty thoughts leach & the
conversation leads to another
moment almost forgot,

he knows the time pattern of
errant cars, the sound of
rusty engines,

time dictates a knowledge of
history, a sanctuary in the
way he holds his chin,

& this is when sports & history
collide, where rivers of fish talk
about the catch,

he remembers the ammo dumps
after the war, the cost to
fish, tragedy & high seas,

chemical warfare, the front step,
return from war, old joe, more ammo
& bedford on fire,

the conversation slows, tv, hollywood,
nothing important, yet we look,

but maybe it’s about youth,
the future of ideas, something
in remembrance,

i talk about frogs & turtles, maybe
the size of trees, the rabbit at
our feet,

talk ends, stories slow,
i sit across & he looks into
eyes, remembering


sky & rock meet, the tedious

movement of clouds along

rail lines, electricity &

the random thought of a rundown,

tired spine,

reaching through fields

of trees, a touch of blood

in frost, light spokes of darkness,

space & an ashtray,

a shot pulled, spread out

against pasture, fire climbs

& eaves bend

saturday at a strangers

somewhere birds call to each other,
the wind carries them away,

i watch the houses next to me
grow as the trees slowly pace back
and forth, waiting for their roots to take hold,

just outside the patio grass becomes
a place to hide, a sanctuary in tiny blades
too small to cut,

from where i stand the fridge
balks at why it must keep things cold,
but still, its relentless hum keeps
it calm,

perhaps through blinds the
window looks less like a window
and more like the world outside,

but the back door is open
& bees are free to come in,

there are pictures on the wall,
a reason to look outside
while remaining
boxed in & framed,

the particular patter of couches,
flowers & lines, a place to sit,
but still, inside,

the glass next to me tries to be lemonade,
but so much for that (as Kroetsch might

bells! there are bells, long & short, the sound
of passing cars