PAUL M. ant ant ant ant ant eight

October 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

A Fox Who Knows Too Many Tricks



Indian Summer

a stick twisted to keep

the spider upright


rehearsing a lie

the orange brilliance

of a poppy field


explaining again

our two homes

snow drifts


gray salamander

a childhood creek

through my fingers


orange blossoms

years since I’ve been

bare-chested under the sun


crunch of dried leaves

I am a fox who knows

too many tricks


old steel town

snow heaped

beside the road


pebbled beach

she turns away

to breastfeed


snow begins to fall

the inappropriate things

she says sometimes


paper white bulbs

the faint moon

in my thumbnail


red oak leaves

a couple married late in life

holding hands


moon just full

who drives

my old car now?


snow-covered garden

a mental note

to wire money


weekend alone

I lift the ficus

into a larger pot


hoar frost

the old corner

with unmarked graves


stairs down to the sea

a dandelion

with seeds intact


tidal silt

the airport’s wind sock

blowing the other way


long week’s end

a hint of red

in the pickleweed


too late to pull it out

the white rump

of a clapper rail


billion year old moon

an outgoing wave

reveals sand crab holes


beads of pond water

on a lily pad

the impossibility of sunup


called home

first crinkled leaves

on the maple tree


commuter station

a bee lingers

in the tickweed


rain to the north

a loose rung

on the lookout tower


office window

they say no two snowflakes

are the same


all these years later

the same pine bough

wet with rain


irregular frame

of a tree fort

chimney smoke


returning geese

her ashes still

in the plain tin


our old field

each step

releases cabbage whites


spring morning

flies return

to a crab carcass



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