Dressed for dinner, she
leaves out water for the crows
in her coat and mask
Low hangs a boiled moon
fingers stick up through the sand
farewell to low tides
No one notices
much about anything
so I think I'm safe
Dry dirt tossed over
my blind brain at mid-evening
three layers of black
Wakizashi
behind glass at the museum
whose hand drew it last?
Little girl chases
after one pigeon, while Dad
eyes the crosswalk light
To reach the grass blade
sticking up brave through the snow,
south around the pond
Afraid of death
to the point where I should write
"so, so, so" in rows
44's pull-cord bell
dying down into silence
the lunatic shifts
Leaden lump worry
crackers soothe my belly
a fan cools my brow
