Old House Made Of River Stone

Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
Fort Worth.
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
boy cat
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
the night
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.

Satellite At Night

I watched my shadow on the grass
walk in night.

The lamp cast it sad, human,
and remnant.

Is to be human
to be remnant,
          longing to live on some rock or star,
          burning away in the sky
          with 50 million years behind us?

Do these friendships turn into
circling high above
we notice our silhouette in distance
on the grass . . .

Winter For The Northern Lake Country

will always be the one
I remember

she walked out
the door

and I
didn’t follow her curves
the rain of
the cold night

the lights of the street
fill her eyes
turning the sentiments
of men
into loyal tragic sadness

I watched the mirror
I watched the clock
I failed to watch her leave

the winter settled in

I bought wool socks
winter of the northern lake

In The House In Your Head

The TVs in this place
can’t help me
They think they can
but they can’t
So I turn to the sorghum fields
remembering you
and knowing that you know
how this feels
with these TVs here
all around in the air
and stillness
You know how their glow
attempts to hold you
It held you many times alone
with your blue eyes
looking into it
past the space in the room
and the person sitting
with you there
by the silence
of the concrete walls
and wooden floor
The same silence
that remains

in the empty house in your

Place, Places, Placement and Placings

The place gets inside your head
Until you can see nowhere else
The familiarity of sunlight on walls
Or shadows from trees and acorns or seeds
on the ground
Can’t really be seen in any other place
in that manner

The place does not ask you to stay
But you grow afraid to walk away
So you settle
You settle
Because mid-life’s gravity is stronger
The freedom you once felt in a desert
in the West

But the place harbors your fears
from the rest of the world
And you smell the scents of its restaurants
Renovated decors
New mirrors and carpets
Over and over
Over the years
Away from the land of the sun