I would imagine
the eyelids fail,
fall closed, shut,
as icicles sit
on porch doors
where old nails rust.
[21]
FOREST SPITTLE
The preciseness of that little moment,
bowler eyes in hot, top rays
effervescent through
spongy forest gloom,
the wet of the happy
unreconciled with the dry outside.
[22]
SEAGULLS
I see many thoughts from a window.
Seagulls in the fashion of summer
and leaves as they quit the year.
Sense impressions, if they are this,
are only images
of what we refuse to follow.
[23]