Poems

October 2019

​

When the buds              

on the birch

disappear

I appear              

              so spooked,

het-up,

heaven-fretted,              

bejesused,

souped up

with all the may-

bees in May,

the new

plight of the new

(Cuckoo,

Cuccu)

to haunt us

back,

to the sleeping

greenwood

(like that? how so?)

with a – wake for a voice,

my loopy echo,

a bit of

locus pocus