All My Blue Januaries

Three of the last minute Januaries sent me
backwards, dead father. What is there that shines

from another day? Night breathes, saturated
with nevered emptiness, cracks language

into a circle of Sundays. The sun
was something we managed.

Blue-roaming blood, a noose is a necklace
you never got out of. I don’t want stars.

Ash is not light. The story is there—
dream-cornered. Leave the necklace

unclasped for the dead. The river has your hands.

Inside Us a Bird Called Home

When the nearing nows, inner rings
expand, imagination.

So much growth standing still.
Sometimes a ghost slips into your

bloodstream, a plum-black abstract
with wildcats stalks.

Sing before pain.
The hour dusks a slow brief bloom.

Spirits bridge, the vanish—
Time-divided moths shake-shiver, silence.

Behind this bandaged path, sun maps. Gone
moonflower, maple artist, Florida

berries, the knowing baker, blown-over
dandelions with wanting faces.

A…