Metamorphosis of a Blythe Spirit

No skylark, summer found him one morning 
In an olive grove, waiting for the cicadas 
To begin their song from limb to limb; 

One evening at the end of autumn, 
Nailed to a twisted trunk, 
They found the shell of him. 

Poet's Bugaboo

Jiminy Cricket! 

Sometimes I’m afraid 

I’m past all grace when 

I feel so smug I expect 

My next feat to come swaggering 

On all six legs out from under the tongue 

Of an army surplus boot and spit 

Flush in my face. 

Speak Not Double Talk of Death

I fear all that can be said 

Has been said before, also 

That nothing has been said before— 

This nothing is what terrifies me 

More than any gibberish said before. 

Great Blue Heron on the Wing

—after reading Robinson Jeffers’ “Autumn Evening” 

Slow wit, if you think this 

Bird ungainly, don’t — 

Imagine how 

Ridiculous you look, trying 

To take off after

Second thoughts again. 

Nightshade

Dearies, 

I want nothing to do with light- 

Hearted blank verse or rhyming 

Structures like ear, hear, near— 

I want nothing but tendrils 

Untouched by bittersweet 

Nothings clinging 

To bier after bier after bier.