Trees Communicate in an Old Language

Into silence a voice.
How weird is that?

Sun snipped by the tallest
building in a small town.

Roads tugging cars through
the curves and straightaways.

And a voice caresses trees
leaning to the turgid river.

Snow hangs to eaves then fades–
illusions of motion.

Words fall in drifts across
the table which separates us.

We can hold a wake for spring
or anticipate sap running through maples.

Occasional streams of melting
snow–dammed conversations.

When Notes Fall From Clouds and Moon

Some nights there are
no new places—

just old alleys where hunch-backed shadows
lean against locked doors—

and all the voices that leak from open windows
are rain dripping along the piano keys of arguments

and testaments to perseverance—and love wedged
between the kitchen table and the sink because

there is no other place for it—and the evening news
is read like a comic book and history just sits

on the sofa—history/dumb history smoking forgetfulness—
and whatever words I think should still live there

have been pulled from the face of this earth
by aliens—have been corrupted by the existence

of chasms between one moment and the next—
have been frittered away to the hunger of needing to write.

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