Tangerine

“The commune of Poetry becomes so real that [the poet]
sounds each particle in relation to parts of a great story
he knows will never be completed.”
--Robert Duncan, Bending the Bow

The Sung, tangible as
The word sounds.

In this instance, poet,
A small round

Reddish-orange object plucked
From a mandarin’s bough.

Immaterial

Nothing substantial, a revenant
Forever taking us back to where

We thought we were relevant.

Southern Exposure

In a stretch of winter sunshine,

Against a harsh weather-
Worn veranda wall,

Soft blue slippers up-
Right in the afternoon,

Next to a beckoning
Red-pillowed chair.

The Shadow Knows

what is moving
is not moonlight

across meadow
so much as clouds

shadowing it.

Starship Earth

Beam us up, Scotty—

Our captain was dead right when he told us
There’d be enough light

Years here for only
One night.