Miasma

A cloud of moths

boils around 

the street lights

in this silent

leafy town.

Like tiny angels

or the souls of babies

who were never born

still trying to escape

the inky darkness,

the breath of hell

that thickens the air

of this accursed town.

I won’t stay nor seek

a place to sleep

under the linden trees

with their heart-shaped

leaves in this heartless

town where all the shades

seem to be forever drawn.

So I keep walking

out past the black soil

of the furrowed fields.

There is no moon

tonight, I feel my way

along the darkened road

with the sound and friction

of the pavement against

the thin soles of my shoes

to where the air is clean

and smells of wild grass.

-Dachau, 1972

Songs in the sky and bushes

Red constellations

of berries on the toyons

stand out against

the evergreen monotony

of December.

They don’t appear

to have been harvested

yet by the flocks of

invisible birds sweetly

singing in the shrubbery.

What we once called

tweets. Before the word

was turned into a term

for short texts

posted on the web.

I would be very happy

if it were to be reclaimed

by robins, finches, juncos.

Vireos, warblers, and wrens.

Even when I can’t see them,

I know that they are there.

Like the ninety percent

of the universe

made of dark matter,

only detectable by its

effect on the visible.

Like God. If you know

what to listen for, a song.

When I rose I saw

The year’s last rose

bravely blazing pink.

I think. Or is it orange?

She does not fear

the wind or frost.

The cloud just above

the bridge that links

the refinery to the prison

shines like a fiery spear.

Perhaps she just

wants to join our

merry Christmas lights

strung along the eaves

and wrapped around

the trees. The leaves

of the bloodgood maple

just below her throne

glow like stained glass

windows in a chapel

when the sun cracks

through the branches

of the sequoia like

the winter solstice

dawn at Stonehenge.