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Beneath the Stars
I Release

The moon rising later

gives me more time

with the stars.

Brittle cold glass 

shattering air cuts

my time beneath them.


I ponder my release as it

            bubbles then puddles.


Will it freeze solid overnight?

Melt and mortify into unpleasant 

aromas in the spring?


In a tooth-cracking breeze 

I shake, close myself up,

and go back to the fire inside.

Take comfort there.

Think of warm friends.

Hot times.

On Lake Washinton:
The Duck

The silence

upon which these feathers 

float is the wishing well

for my pending altruism,

the wish itself the stillness 

which drifts from its center 

like fog from the heavens

inter-coursing the city 

with its mysterious 

elongated mood.

I feel in her there

this body

flowing with hers.

When she dives 

she eats the quietude

of cold winter waters,

at the surface spits it out,

a fish in her mouth

for those of us 

come to the edge,

to goad us from the nest.



These outdoor smells

of nature chilled

beckon the bear in me,

a winter call

to hunker down

and dream.


And in this seasonal drag

I wonder

in my doing,

    pulling in,

what I will not be doing,

In my thinking,

    letting out,

what I will not be thinking.


I think,

inhaling thoughts,

and release circles of smoke

into the belly of the beast.


I grieve,

    pulling in,

what will be left undone,

    and let out

these ruminations feeding 

my hunger in sleep,

    pulling in emptiness,

    grateful for the quiet.

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