A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
Near Albuquerque wild rains sweep mesas in the dark.
Satisfying, to drowse aboard the night train in the dark.
I sewed up a hole in the tent roof last summer, confident
that fireflies and starlight would remain in the dark.
Asters and watermelon lade the table on the old screen porch.
Outside, I hear the pump handle strain in the dark.
Norma in her plaid sheath is seated at the upright piano.
Does she wonder which overtures to entertain in the dark?
Lay the wild rose, violet, vetch, and shooting star between
the pages of the press that their juices will stain in the dark.
Stars and space: the great galactic sieve too filigreed to hold
without the stuff of burnt-out stars, cohesive vein in the dark.
Hinged, in two parts, seemed the autumn moon one night—
the dangling capsule of a construction crane in the dark.
St. Lucia’s Day, a crown of candles, coffee, saffron buns:
symbols of sufferance a morning can contain in the dark.
[Originally published in Flyway, Vol. 7.2/7.3 (Fall/Winter, 2002), Ames, IA: Iowa State University]