words words words words words



♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Eat my words.

The words scatter to safety. But for one.
It held its place frozen fearful sacrificial.
Sentence; it waited to be taken plucked devoured just like
a Black-capped Chickadee clutching tree bark seconds
before a Cooper’s Hawk strikes.
I dive down from out of nowhere intent on making a meal of it.
Seconds after the kill gulp licking my chops I go hungry.
Short spunky words long ponderous words
meaty sweet salty flippant stinky vile words all of them plate them for me.
I’m insatiable. I cock my head my ear to the zeitgeist much like
the perky stop-start American Robin does when darting
back and forth on grass listening for worms.

I listen for words.

♦♦♦♦ Just the right word.

 The perfect word.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦Sentence by sentence.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ Swallow by swallow.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ Peristalsis by peristalsis.

♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ ♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ Toot by toot.


Fields of Real Estate



Fields of Real Estate


05.25.02 11:45am the G & F Farm, Interlaken, NY


Two Mourning Doves squat plump on a high wire.
Lovers alone: their folded wings touch feel one another,
a conduit for their knowing, heartbeats merge
keeping time.
Wheat, alfalfa, corn stretch out below.
Above: the sky with gray and white washes
of infinity.

A sudden bolt into the atmosphere, a dive
into the grass to forage, then back again.

As before, their metatarsals enclose
one bare-scant hum of the continuum,
a sliver of commotion drawn from
telephone pole to telephone pole going
ya-ta-ta ya-ta-ta ya-ta-ta ad-in-fi-na-tum

And no sound.

Only the silence of day
realized by the work of tractor, the hum of pick-up,
the wind, by the call of crow, the bark of dog,
the wind, by the trumpeted moan of cow, always
the wind sashaying with wheat, corn and the future.

Side by side our Mourning Doves wait.

Holy spectator, timeless specter, waiting.
Etched in sunrise and sunset, waiting.
Washed in rain and wind, waiting.
Waiting for the glare the din of shopping mall,
parking lot, the future.