jst
wb
once my father drew
the face of the moon before
he got drunk and left
To point at the moon
Is to point the moon
Right here.
* *
I throw a raisin
to a mockingbird hungry
belly yellow eyes
This withered drop of sun
So dark at noon
And so tasty.
* *
a scrap of my past
an old postcard from somewhere
I forgot to stamp
Forty years found
In a postcard whose lake and trees
Rested between pages 26 and 27.
* *
a single snowflake
I do my best to save it
I melt anyway
It is an epaulet, a promotion,
A star to be shouldered
The general command of snow.
* *
in a parking lot
I spot an acorn falling
from nowhere at all
The pale blue flower
Grows in the crack
Ready to move concrete.