Thursday, January 5, 2017


January—is this trap door my
poetry cannot help 
but step on.

In a frozen rush, 
both the past
and future bug-out 

and suddenly my thoughts
feel obfuscated and dark, 

in the dismal 
breach between 

the quick
haiku rush of 
golden springtime wisdom

and that silvery 
tingle of a Christmas 
card greeting—

like a desperate
Rudolph, with his 
nose so bright 

took me 
to the river,
dropped me

in the water—
right nearby 
that desolate 

bank where 
Neil Young 
shot his baby.