Monthing poem

Looking at calendar too much.

Like I’m learning how to count.  All over.

Again, I imagine end, when rest welcomes

Life, actual living, no clock following.

Or computer contact.  Don’t want any

of that, there.  Like mustard between vineyard

rows, the anxiety scratches between veins.


Photographing stars next to dumptrucks.

They’re everywhere.. and the water,

multicolored like child canvas.  What



Drive it away, wish myself to far stay.

Empty swing, little breeze bump–

Walking me, smilingly, from slump.