Winter, Stonyford, 2014

Meager white sun
reflects off the table

by the crepe myrtle
in my mother's garden.

November reigns:
this is the month for licking

wounds.  Iris bulbs divide;
clay soil clings to my fingers

and newly sprouted grass
sports dew like diamonds.

Possibilities from wrath,
promises of a better spring.

Vallejo

Jade green
rippling water.

Set back on a hill
a house where town fathers

saw whores.
Blackhearts, sailors

drank and ate their fill.
Barbers' razors,

hot towels -- a noon brawl:
blood spilled.