Little Thrush

There is a thrush that slowly
dies. Fresh resting on piles
of ice.

There is a leaded meadow
that still glows with new burnish-
ings. Old.

And a discerning turtle-
dove. A fist; gloved as if a
falconress.

Assailed by dark waves of dreams
diving in on pluméd wings
of lust.

Common Vole

The rivulets are gunnels
of traction tracking

and a field vole's head
up in grass. Then retracting

into some hole
on plain.

Trepidation

Double breasted suits on
rack, in closet. Jet-

black. The unbearable
sheaves of paper. The

piles upon piles of
paper. And a sear-

able hunk.
The police's