soles slipped on pebbles stripped
by rain in puddles’ planes,
purged of brine, plied with oil,
glassing back black pines
sprawling through tumid air,
chilled and swollen, still as an anthill;
limp, dead death
hangs unhanged by throatless spines
from white eaves
Hallowed fear of death’s gate vexed—latched—
creaks in on ponderous wings.
Sea’s eve dew dews late green shoots
while poured plastic gourds plump pumpkined porches
and new-brewed smells bake off asphalt
and soaked summer-strewn leaves,
scents unknown to T-Rex
or to man’s groggy morning
in the too-bright breath
on Heraclitus’ embered ashes.
In the book-soft room
pecan leaves flash and flutter
on a still and silent mirror
framed in red, bound with gold.
First night’s wheeling-hued blue
gaps the grey lace clouds
and streetlights tatter ragged rounds
through porch-paned mothwings.
Be not be symphony of seem.
What word alone is certain good?
Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The 2River View and PILGRIM.