La lune

The moon gleams in dolorous waves,
lulling the sea to sleep in the still muted
tide of night. Everything is quiet, slipping
into darkness, stupefied by dreams. Everything
spilling towards daybreak. Hush, hush. Listen
to the murmur of mice in their midnight beds,
the berceuse of night-blooming flowers, craning
towards the celestial. Listen to the hymns of
dark woods, the siren song of the salt sea, rippling
lyrics of love to mermaids. Now the owl puts forth
his question, which is answered by shadow
and a kind of gravity made possible
only by starlight.


The wave curls over,
a piece of sea-glass, hard and ceramic
blown with the salty sea-spray.

The glacier sheets evolve with the moon –
her lunar inconsistencies, her nightly mood swings.
Tonight’s temperament is phlegmatic

Cold and sickly,
wet and unpleasantly froggy:
that terrible, throaty influenza itch

The slushy foam is tulle.
The sky observes it in turmoil
It is that time of year again:

Nature, embroiling,
brought to a boil.

I have mired

I have mired with the voices of maddened seas
If the sirens call for me, I will answer
with tones both eager and cordial
and if they will invite me to tea I
will find myself gladly accepting

& down into the pulsing, throbbing love
I shall go, drawn aloft by unbidden
electricity, a seedling between my shoulder
blades, threatening always to take wing