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.