Weekends

Out for a walk, my welfare seems tilted.
I don’t like the new puppy or the women
in the racetrack bar.

Slugging melting evening traffic.
On foot I am winged against it,
waiting for the pinch of an angel.

Three smooth stones
carried on the water to me:
The ideal Saturday night.

The Lake

This summer I’m building a lake.
Waking I burn fat orange candles
to stubs and look over blueprints.

When I die, I plan to burn and scatter
from every shore. Burn and scatter.
Sailboats will float on me, and in winter

I will turn to ice. I may be up to 500
feet deep at some parts.
I think I will haunt my lake nicely.

Riddance

This town’s days became mud.
One week a voice spoke out wool phrases,
trudging in the watershed marshes.

They got lost against the bluffs
and spooled out into lesser secrets
by branches, squirrels, and tramps.

The days combed through us.
There was bathing and TV.
Now there is only goons.