
a dark cloud blocks
the Summer sunset,
but light won’t be pent.

a dark cloud blocks
the Summer sunset,
but light won’t be pent.

Poison Ivy, I think you know
that you will always be my foe.
I can slice your vine, pal-o-mine,
and still end slathered in calamine.
Because I must haul your corpse away,
and on my gloves your oils will stay —
waiting that unexpecting day
when I scratch some tender bit.

invisible bugs
ripple the lake surface;
from here, it’s mirror.

a cloud shadow
dragged over the hill
like a blanket.