ROBERT CREELEY WAS A HAWK                        

Shrieking atop a sycamore

And wind blowing in from the West

Behind a grapefruit sunrise

Wow I said there goes Bob

Pale wing-spread fanning azure

Homeward in direction northeast

IF JAMES SCHUYLER WAS HERE                 

The sky's ongoing pre

occupation with you

could relent long enough

to leave your eyes

in your words

again

And that would be great

but then you still have

a deal to keep

with the atmosphere

that's not mine

and so away

again

But so for a moment I would see

that density of word you

made light as another day

and so partake

in a ritual selfhood us

poets make time

and again

Mostly it's to get you out

of the subjunctive

"if" isn't it

but what remains sound

without tense

to wander in the body

of your words

again

HOMAGE TO POETS                  

Alive or dead

so what

say you to minnows

darting seeming aimless

heron food I guess or

whatever else

eats them

A face hooked and silver barbed

floated upon a daïs of

personality                It

                        oversaw

the planting in spring

of ash and spider wort

            in sidewalk trash and blithely

elevated

CONVERSING WITH AN EMPTY MUG         

Look how late morning gets

and no clear sky to sing

but in your cold container

I dream of nearer things

like getting home to the neighbor's

dead possum wrapped in garbage

bags and the mound of yard

clippings left to dry

while I await the force of spring

to turn my heart to usefulness

and for no purpose

THE WIND BLOWS A HOMELESS MAN             

The wind blows a homeless man

Across a parking lot            He combs

Long dirty wisps of silver hair and

Chews something thoughtfully

All the more so as

The wind blows and he finally goes