THE MAN
Moon’s up, flinging
bits of herself out
into the void where
stars sting, flint,
fer-de-lance, bloom
like neurons,
neuroses, till dawn
spills over a line
of migrating sandpipers
skimming the swell
as the tide turns
leaving froth, wrack,
detritus and at the
water’s edge a man
leaving no prints.
THE MARE
Wind ground down,
dropped into the west.
This morning orders
came from the east:
everything stay where
it is. Trees freeze.
The waterfall stops,
painted on rock.
I open the window to what’s
in silence. Thrush,
flute, nothing, just
me and the old mare,
head to wind, facing
the snow, flicking it
from her flanks, nostrils
wide, breathing it in.
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