against all odds

love is possibly the only anti-entropic force;
the yearning of molecules in a void of disorder

the sheer odds of which are
incomprehensible to the scholars of chance
those who've guessed the scale of things

love; the only resistor
to the pull of black holes

against all astronomical odds
i love you

diphthong

i fell asleep
to the
diphthong of the wind

woke yawning woe,
found light took hours leaving,
destroyed our rooms sounds           and
flew your coop sweetly

tropos

i should have known my crumbs
would be the old words
is it divination
if its only useful
after the fact?


i've hardly got a shadow at noon
the sun has reached its limit
of how high its willing to go
it knows to turn around
and head back where it came from


my fingers are wearing down
and i get tiny bits of steel in my blood
it takes three days for them to heal
but in the mean time
i feel closer to everything i touch

florida headlines found poem

PLANET LIKELY TO BE TOO HOT BY THE END OF THE CENTURY

HUNGER/CURIOSITY LED DEER TO PUT HEAD IN DORRITOS BAG

NAZI LEADERS LONG-LOST DAIRY OFFERS NEW INSIGHTS

FIGHTING TERRORISM WILL BE A NEVER-ENDING BATTLE

STUDIES SUGGEST WOLVES MIGHT BE SMARTER THAN DOGS

10 ELDERY WOMEN ESCAPE LIMO FIRE

MANY JOBS STILL REQUIRE SKILLS

GENEROSITY BEGINS AT HOME

rooms

i must make it home
i left the first fireflies
streaming in the tall grass
of the warming evenings


i've got to map those rains
and the raspy noises that
i hear in the minutes just
before the early birds

i knew i forgot to thank
that bull frog for showing
me the worth of the ability
to whoop your lover home


i'm shooing spiders
from my inner room
failing to realize
they attract the birds from yours


somehow the great distances
i will go are tiny when i hold
them to the sidereal of time
in my orbit of your soul

still i've got to catch

that late light through the leaves

or i won't know how

to smile when i die

i like the spiders but

why do i insist they go?

i'm leaving shrugs and moans

where my pen should be

the fact of the matter is
i am guided by the rooms
that i will build, made of windows
made of letting in the light

thought i'd wake up in the night
when the cold sky opened
with some sort of knowing

thought this morning
my soul would finally cleave

thought the poppies would 

come up this year
and bloom today

but they didn't

and so       just now

i thought about your hands

and realized they are exactly 

the size of the rain's

phenology

yesterday the crab-apple by the house
today the lilac by the garden
i calculate star geometry
and anticipate the dogwood

me, i'm looking for the perfect stone
in the dark of rain at noon
and to measure my fortunes
by the roughness of my hands

princess light

only one answer

I stood in the flowery dawn
(the summer triangle rising
just before the light)
and asked my question plainly

"Just how many poems
can one man compose
on the subject of spring?"

I heard the hyacinths blooming