deadfall pine
the beetle does
a head stand

sleeping bag —
the distance between me
and the nearest star

oak leaves
curled almost shut
the clocks turned back

frost on the windows
the crescent moon’s
sharp points

blue frost
a man on the train
with too much to carry

summer night
the soft bottom
of a farm pond

Sunday morning —
nothing comes or goes
but the fog

corn stubble
rippling ribbons
of blackbirds

hurricane alert
a sudden urge to visit
his grave

falling leaves . . .
the street preacher
quickens his cadence