324. fingering the moon

                                                  fing)
                         ernail
(moon


w a t e r i n g   r o c k s


the moon I can’t find
in a scattered bed
of acorns


night for thinking
no sun in it


the hand I used
to have cannot
reach the switch


the cat turns
only its head


from here
the steps seem to go
up


rain fallen into something else


my headache
is my blood
in cold spring


what doesn’t happen next
is remembering to fall asleep


enough time
that my tea leaves
turned to dust


only ashes, the logs that kept my back warm


bare branches
ready to bud
I grieve for spring


the only raspberry frozen
and melting on my tongue


room’s red
with eyelid’s
veins


eggplant bruise | a shadow on my thigh


cat walks by
a shade lighter
than evening


thnight


my cat too
sleepy
for poetry


eau de vie in green and fir


snow’s melted
I still think
in colors only white


not a blank sheet around me so I write upon one


still and slight cold
shows me
I’m not yet dead


flowerbox draped with stems of long-dead flower


a flying ant
awake too early
this year


boiler running, dog whining in its sleep


regretting
the scratch in
a chairback


the wind is the radiator


heard birds
yesterday
which, I don’t know


the heat I can’t feel


everything in place
I can see the hollowness
the night fills


I see there is no moon after all