unprecious, as song to howl,
as captain to warlord, as wolf
to man, as the wolf in the man

At the left, the ax; at the right, the saw.
The ax in the block, the saw on the sawhorse.
Sawdust smothers the walk. Sitting in the

The delicate foot of 
Phoebe Isolde Farmer 
taps measures acceptable to, among others, the 

Jack Crack
took his palette to Paris
and writing his friends

Don’t worry, Patricia, 
about being forgotten: 
you have left stray hairs 

Somewhere on a manicured street / a poem is waiting

I have just read / a poem I wrote ten years ago. I like it.

I saw the crow first, on the shoulder turned 
to mud, then its shadow, then the cage
of bone arcing up from the muck. January 

And he shall not be narrow or be numb
But shall command his hostages of fear,
He who has bowed his neck to enter here

I dream you, and you come to me
intact, in focus, indiscreet, mouthing
the sweetest lies as if we cared.