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