a cow lying

a cow lying

in the alder’s shadow

the pretty redhead

previously unpublished

at midday

in the blue sky

apparition of the moon

previously unpublished

through a small

window of time

a rye field

previously unpublished

trembling jelly

trembling jelly

of the early spring evening

stabbed by a heron

previously unpublished

viola da gamba

between her thighs

baroque sadness

previously unpublished

the scales fell

from lakeside poplars

autumn clarity

previously unpublished

song thrush at dusk

song thrush at dusk

bidding farewell to each day

as if it were the last

first published in Chrysanthemum, spring 2018

hurting me

with a light touch

summer breeze

previously unpublished

summer sunrise

the urgency of time

on our hands

previously unpublished

a fish slips

a fish slips

down the heron’s throat

river bend

first published in Cattails, spring 2018

furtively

I click my mouse

on the pussycats

first published in Cattails, spring 2018

The Debt

Don’t put yourself at risk, you’re too precious. Leave heroism to those who are fit for nothing more. It might have been Tolstoy or maybe Dostoevsky. Perhaps grandma used to preach that.

a toy fan

on a child’s grave

the howl of wind

first published in Cattails, spring 2018

first narcissi

first narcissi

Persephone walks out of

the underground station

first published in Presence, April 2018

late goldenrod

the summer stretches

like a lazy cat

first published in Presence, April 2018

Sybil

You won’t die but you’ll be older and older, Sybil. You’ll shrink with time which will shrink, too. Sweat and tears will evaporate. Body fluids will flow away. Fat will be burnt without smoke or fire. You’ll become light and dry. I’ll push you into the bottle like a cork. I’ll put my ear to the neck of the bottle to hear what you still have to drone about the future.

winter twilight

a grey-haired man lights a fag

from the grave candle

first published in Presence, April 2018

I ache

I ache

where I used to play

small town spring

previously unpublished

like straw

our summers

burnt out

previously unpublished

an old dog

sleeping on the threshold

scent of September

previously unpublished

anniversary

anniversary

two golden water rings

around a heron’s legs

first published in Shamrock 39, March 2018

a lantern-jawed man

in the evening street

autumn chill

first published in Modern Haiku, 49.1, winter-spring 2018

Web World

Interview with a film director who, after therapy, closes his Facebook account.

Tweet by a PhD that vaccines kill and broccoli heal.

Confession of a woman afraid to stop because she might miss something.

Post by a blogger who now notices his likes are changing him into a beast.

Comment that once kissing was what you did between hello and fucking.

Headline about registering the brand Zyklon for a firm’s gas ovens.

pain

spreading through veins

autumn rain

first published in Modern Haiku, 49.1, winter-spring 2018