.

wanting more





on colder days,
when zebra-muscled sensibilities
thrash gobied waves ashore,
when oily-puddled rainbows spray
away my everydayness, psychic
densities withdraw from air like
gutted fish for sedimental soup,


and so, I sift the searching spray
for frabjous-lakeside Lewis Carrollisms
lost in frozen sand, despite
the dark-cloud broodings
of a grey december sky
which rocks the shore
with slaking-limestone regionalities


til I forget to swear
the wet-pressed beggings
of a poet to my head
because a brooding line
of goose-billed politicians
claims its lay along the ledge
of local winter


on a pier, black-webbed
notions firmly footed in
the streetlamp glow of
undiminished history,
non-migratory spies with
billion year-old bird-brown eyes
that factory the bay with stares,


sentinels for stars, night lights
breathing deep the airborne sludge
from sulphur stacks and other
interspecies miscommunications,
who pray for floating buffleheads
to snub the toxic clams in favour
of free offerings of corn,

yet I would never do what Alice did
(and jump into a jar), but would
prefer to wash the winter-dark from
airy updraft hearts, and hovering
there, flip winter wind to shrouds,
shelter feathered spirits of the dead
with angel wings, and beg


for spring