streaks of pink
in the darkening blue
chimney silhouette

haiku from ant ant ant ant ant

you bring your constellation of gnats

across the street
santa slowly filling out
leftover turkey

The Park is Full of People by Michael Robbins

It took me an hour to travel
one hour into the future.
It’s terrible here,

misquoted “moon full on the lawn”
as “moon full of the lawn” and now
I long for airless orbiting praries.

The future—or as I like to call it,
5:31 p.m.—is finally on.

under the power lines
another little brown leaf

{And Here, the Remains of a Field} by Alain Mabanckou
translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson

And here, the remains of a field

A path withstands the onslaught of ferns
Mushrooms grow
on contorted limbs of a felled rônier palm
Handles of pruning hooks
A large aluminum cooking pot overturned
at the edge of the gulch
its lid lies a bit farther off …

Two blocks of flint
for inventing fire …

the thanksgiving table
turkey vulture?

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson

Chapter 1

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost … I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place
but, it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in … it’s a habit.
my eyes are open
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.

bleaching the bath mat
another leaf drifts


for summer – she needs

pretty dress – cotton

cotton nottoc




tocnot tocont



fog passing
under a streetlight
train on unused tracks

from The Thanksgiving Reader

An illustration of a dome of blooms on a stem with leaves and the text “You can’t carve up the world. It’s not a pie.” by Patti Smith

with every sip
neglected coffee

Elegy from Let Us Compare Mythologies by Leonard Cohen 📚

Do not look for him
In brittle mountain streams:
They are too cold for any god;
And do not examine the angry rivers
For shreds of his soft body
Or turn the shore stones for his blood;
But in the warm salt ocean
He is descending through cliffs. Of slow green water
And the hovering coloured fish
Kiss his snow-bruised body
And build their secret nests
In his fluttering winding-sheet.

idling / creeping / idling
the light cycles

from Some eel thoughts by Michael Malay

Their voyage thus describes a kind of sinewave, a diurnal dipping followed by a nocturnal surfacing: the arc of their homecoming.

They are not returning for themselves but for the future, which makes itself felt as an itch in their bellies.

Today, there are more than one million man-made obstructions in rivers and streams across Europe.

The contradiction couldn’t be greater. On one hand, the obduracy of concrete and the flushness of steel, and on the other hand, this sinuous rope of changing life. An eel

Everywhere, though, it is being met by borders and walls, borders and walls.

I am always being born, it says, and now – can you hear it? – watch me as I disappear.  

tractor tiller
still&emdash;rusted yellow
fallen leaves

from We’ll Meat Again by Benjamin Myers

Rust smears a sunset
over the quarantine station
as ants map the land grab
of the crumbling colony
down here in the castle of nettles.

rusted in the pine
leaf blower drones

from The Cows of Love Creek by Danusha Laméris

This is not repentance, a gesture to reset the scales-

or is it? How do we love the earth
without getting blood on our hands?

held note
a pine top sways
string scrape

from Autumn’s Sun by Loren Connors

Oct. I3

I sit here on the toilet thinking, Well, I just have to get this out of the way, don’t I, so I can look at the trees and work.
The kid’s crying and Suzanne says, “C’mon, c’mon.” Last night he knocked over a guitar in Brian Guitars, and I thought we’d have to buy it. Suzanne started shaking and asked me, “Why’d you open the case?” I said, “It was this beautiful blues guitar, like a diamond.” “Like a diamond!” she said, with a smile that was already there.

I have to drive to the marsh today. By the road I see a maple. It’s cold, and the maple seems redder, and this howling at my truck brings it to me even more.

    little birch     no leaves, no buds
    in dawn’s light

leaf pile
rustles in the cold breeze
wet shadow of one gone


yowling like a cat from the alley
flaps away