All perfect I do not tell
Her for being fearful
She might laugh

She flies away into
The endless sky I do not see

I wait
Hoping I might be
Remembered

All the (what
Maybe) clouds like
Fluffy (buzz less) bees
Searching (not for
Honey) – and we
Too (un) together
Wish we could
Fly (& other things
That do not end
Without sweetness)

o see the raven soar between the night
and day – the gritting of starry teeth
upon dark’ning feather – she tells how light
a bone can be as the world floats beneath

o see the raven hang between the air
and sea – the clenching of squared jaw
upon the lightening – a feather on a dare
seeking a true path through thundered yaw

o see the raven dive between the hour
and the day – the line of sight turned glare
a grayed story left for some mind to devour
like a bible for the unloved to hear and despair

o no, i am not the raven or the coming storm
the eternity unspoken or the line that proves the form

the heron knows the blues
better than I do, better than you do
better than any fool-poet
winging poems like prayers
along the riverbank

the heron knows the blues
like the beat, like the beaten
better than any damned beatnik
winging poems like prayers
along the road

the heron knows the blues
three bars down, four bars down
twelve bars and ten shots later
winging whisky like a prayer
down the throat
of this mean little city on this mean little river
on this mean little day

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
walk the streets of paris and imagine
how our love might be in april

under the eiffel tower we ate hotdogs
and told eachother stories about other trips
that were so much less than this one

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
jaunt down to the louvre to experience
our love in front of Mona Lisa

in the opera house we listened for ghosts
and told eachother stories about other days
that were much less than this one

it was not cold, or not so cold
that we – being in love – could not
tremble as we kissed on montmartre

three monkeys sit in a tree
watching men walk past
like me

the sun a matter of opinion
the moon a subject of discourse
the monkeys all agree
it really could be worse

three monkeys sit upon a stone
watching men like me
alone

the road an essay on the past
the field a poem of future’s dreams
the monkeys all agree
this isn’t what it seems

three monkeys sit upon the dirt
watching men writhing like me
hurt

The giraffe, being tall
And spotted
By the lion waiting
In the dry grass

A long neck
reaches for a high branch
by the sharp teeth watching
from the dry grass

Sunlight defeats the ground
beneath cloven feet
a roar
the rumble of claws on gravel

being the hare, searching the savannah
i see the giraffe standing at the watering hole

perhaps a lion is out there, perhaps hungry
perhaps seeing the giraffe as well

being the hare, there on the savannah
i say nothing as I watch for the lion
i say nothing as I watch the giraffe

later, I am thirsty, I leap a thousand times
across the dry grass until I am there
with the giraffe

‘giraffe, do you worry that you are spotted
by a lion at the watering hole?”

perhaps the giraffe is scared, perhaps hungry
perhaps seeing the lion as well

being the hare, there on the savannah
i wait as the giraffe says nothing
I wait as the giraffe watches for lions

now, I am sated, i say, “giraffe,
you will always be spotted
and you will always be tall enough to see
off into the distance and run”

perhaps the giraffe is laughing, perhaps angry
perhaps knowing I’m a fool as well

being the hare, there on the savannah
i smile as the giraffe leaves me wondering
about the beauty of the one that runs
everything
without claws or teeth.

All the (what
Maybe) clouds like
Fluffy (buzz less) bees
Searching (not for
Honey) – and we
Too (un) together
Wish we could
Fly (& other things
That do not end
Without sweetness)

i see them hungry, the cavemen
hunting mammoth near the mountains.
the cavewoman at home,
hungrier – wondering

not of protein, but of soul –
this diet of hers, it is cold
for the heart – a gathering of berries
of nuts, of bones

the cavemen come home
not today, not tomorrow
but soon – with fat and ivory
with fur and meat

the cavewoman does not smile
she tends the fire
silently
a hide must be tanned

i hear echoes in the paint
on the walls of caves in France
i smell loss in the distance
between now and then

I see the caveman singing
his story into the embers
as they flail upward toward the stars
– the cavewoman does not sing along
she is hungry
for more than this