First Lines

A field of wheeling notes
A shower of seed fell to the earth
A solemn joy set Jesus on.
A year I’ve awaited your return
As proof of how our family line is made of hearty genes
Barbet
Barry built a wooden tiv
Brake pads, bow strings
Breath is true, a rhythmic ripple
By the image and afterimage of all my chosen griefs I,
“Come down from the branches,”
Carrying on, carrying child and calm head,
Creator God of blessings great,
Dactyls are terrible lizards that fly at the mind,
Everyone stopped and I,
Fear is fleeter than light
Feel, ho w softly down the throat
Finnygowls on a slip of paper say
Fresh faced, with a diamond in her ear
Haikus belong here
He doesn’t seem to me to be a person we could see,
He stands in the half light,
Here, right here, in the small of the year,
His name, Dagon
I am from mudballs on the wall at park beach
I found a slasher, rusted bad;
I sit on a bench in a warm-lit place,
If I peer
If we dare, it can bear being dammed up
In the kitchen, full of flour
In this kitchen, when I’ve done my best
Liking the smelling of catnip,
Long will I climb the mountain sublime,
My older cousins got here first
My older cousins got here first and even filled the shed,
NICE CHRISTIAN MAN.
Now in death’s valley, every shadow
Oh Ichabod, your mother is dead.
On grey branches which grew
once ere our era
one swan swam on a mere.
Once, me met s a calico and piebald, patchy pig,
Our hope of course
Perhaps the Northern climes, Decembers cold with snow
Pure of any mortal mote
Relenting, the rain left a midnight chill
Rest. On the throne he sits, replete,
Rising before us, the pregnant stage point stands
Saturday was mis
Seven skulls sit side-by-side
Sign of horror
Sirens tell of evil and good.
Slowly rising back I make
Slumping down the stairs like a medicine ball
Somewhere about there’s a slithering sound of man’s enmity,
Stack them all upon my head
That eyes would see the dear design
The bear and bull make stomachs lurch
The bench rushes back – but in shade; I am frail
The clouds with growls of rain-wolves rumble,
The Dead See Scrolls
The Dead See Scrolls
The inside and the outside of a man,
The line of pulsing shoulder blades,
The people enter, ascension of mind and soul
The promenade took
The prophets’ sons were making house when one had cause to shiver:
The road rose up to meet…
The second of a pair
The truck tyres invert the rain,
Then Haydn finds my head and puts a blind hand to my chin.
There is no greater fear than this:
These silent white keys
Thick juicy squeeze
Thinking again about dactyls and how they don’t tolerate
Thirsty rake come slake your Summer
This is the message, regardless of me
This love will always, always have been.
This overcast windscreen,
Through a porthole, I wait
To carry close a fishing net of gold or sea-green thread,
To the man of joy and steeple,
To the one who said, “Let there be light”,
To what degree is the will free?
Upon the shores of water still
Violin bows grow
Viscous cat as warmday honey
We saints should shed the catechisms of the world,
We will not last as long as you did
What a time to hold both mourning and fear
What really is the use
When lit drops like diamonds
When looking for a spouse,
When Spring arrives, the flowers burst
When the day runs together
With solemn joy we sing
You belong to the pendulum
You bring that fricative to my lip and teeth
You find yourself upon a rock
You know those hyper-neuronic days: