Juvenile Onset

Still I think of his eyes
crossing over, too soon.

Mine rolled back, a smile,
Bawdy remark on his lips.

Before we left our homes
he stayed.

A prayer on our tongues,
Did we know him?

We grow away,
he is still.

When It Was Over

She cannot shake
herself in the mirror
at her side she cannot see
someone
once
remember a breeze
at the back of her neck
he kisses the sunshine is
gone
to drift
backwards
she cannot

Dutch Plate

From the stained table I look

at a blue plate hanging.

Dutch, perhaps.

How do patterns fall on ceramic;

appear from nowhere?

Outside, rain etches itself into patches of grass.

Over White Dishes

The music worries with its tearful

notes above the noise

when it breaks

over the white dishes,

and wants, unknowing,

to finish their cold words.

(Syntax imitation

Original poem: Not Writing by Jane Kenyon)

Overhead, They Circle

Dot in the sky comes

Close, unexpected

It is big.

Not a dot, but

glorious. An eagle.

No, two.  Too fast.

Drumming loudly in my ears,

The mud is stuck

In my toes,

They run but cannot.

I look, they were there.

Gone, now, into nothing,

the dot, no, two.

The eagle.

Was it?