Poetry

the commentator’s mouth still moves,
silent now,
a mime of authority.
a mother’s scream clipped mid-syllable.

Each week falling like a plodding foot, though we’d have sworn there were more than 52 in that burgeoning deck. We tried shoring up the months, yet still they’d bleed into each other:

Power applauds when angels fall –
slow and polite,
like a king on its throne,
as the wings, once white,
are now just muddy roadkill feathers

5928.5 is the cruelest stardate, breeding
Bracken’s World out of the airwaves, mixing
Westerns and cop shows, stirring
Ironside with Nielson ratings.

Another worry to push from my mind
as I stand on a manicured lawn
inhaling creation on a bright spring day
while wildfires rage in the distance.

Let someone other than she, she
decides, take the rap for causing
an embarrassment of witches.  My sorrow 
is my castle.  She winks, and
fifteen miles away, some car runs
over a cat. Simple earthly mechanics. 

A woman’s voice
As if asking,
Could I take up my instrument once more
As if saying,
Together we could skip through spring once more

Again I am listening 
to Miles. It becomes a
pattern. The heat, the 
open Magritte on the 
computer desk, the cat