transplanted in me as if decreed the sun’s many eyes

stone fences the quiet courtship of evening rain

rip in the eaves the receding hours

when even clouds cannot speak of heights what can draw water from the well

floating up the gurgling pool a school of broken words

peeping moon she lifts the cover off the mulch bed

a lodestar where we belong is not among swans

droplets on bent daffodils could be tears

what's left of the mist paper roses

shuffled distance between my feet and tomorrow the finale

screams pierce the dusk masked ghosts

this morning a lot of people have facial birthmarks

unbecoming of a moon dried up inkwell

afraid of the virus birch trees

low octave staccato ti possibly a scavenger

with padded hooves he prowls a bottomless void the unfinished poem

long after their shared umbrella COVID-19

dingy in the movie sinking upholstery

sundown haze free format driftwood wedged between secrets

Oh my, it's 2:02 am...wrong diagnosis

gull’s shadow playing on a precipice our eyes tilted on billows

feeding 10 swords to the virus

green again the gills of a shallow well