Diminishing Returns

The sun sinks below 
The horizon like a rock 
Dropped in dark water. 

Hood Ornament

Looking down his nose 
At a Rolls-Royce: the rook
On the roof. 

Loitering

Leaning like James Dean 
Against the wall at sunset, 
The truant sunbeams. 

Deep Cut

Unexpectedly
Hearing a song from Steel Wheels — 
Mixed emotions. 

Haunted

Deserted house —
All of the furniture 
Wearing white sheets. 

Sidetracked

Gooey gumdrop rain. 
Passage barred by candy canes. 
Sugar-coated train. 

October

A bat flaps its wings — 
The pale ghost of a baseball
Floats up to the light. 

Chasm

The Grand Canyon — 
A gopher snake winding
Across the trail. 

Inspiration

Wherever it is, 
Apparently it isn’t 
Off in the distance. 

The Price

Long after he’d gone, 
People heard his voice coming 
From somewhere beyond. 

Yellow Submarine

Children on a bus — 
Faces peering back at us 
From behind the glass. 

Headlines

Out on the back porch, 
A graying dog lifts his nose 
To the morning news. 

Smokestack

Smoke streams from the tip 
Of a cigarette hanging 
From the earth’s cracked lips. 

Desert Island

Sonoran summer — 
A lonely lizard making 
Love to a hot stone. 

Vestige

Not a breath of wind — 
The pinwheels in the graveyard 
Somehow still spinning. 

Crickets

The foundering sun 
Flaring on the horizon 
Sets off their alarms. 

Backlot

First few drops of rain — 
Footprints in a black and white 
Film with Claude Rains. 

Blazer

The old Chevy coughs, 
Lights up and exhales 
A cloud of blue smoke. 

Whale

A windswept palm tree 
Sprouting from a hump of rock — 
Deserted island. 

Pins and Needles

Two slender, trembling pine trees flank 
The cave mouth like a pair
Of trepidatious sentries trading 
Whispers and worried stares, 
Who jump at their own shadows and 
The slightest gust of air. 

White Noise

A clouded sun drifts 
In and out like a distant 
Radio station. 

Discontinued

No one will profit 
When our penniless proverbs 
Lose their currency. 

Forest Lawn

The grass is so lush 
The longest strands seem to clutch 
My boots as I pass. 

Vintage

Savoring the sweet 
Scent of yellowed paperbacks —
Breath of autumn leaves. 

The Viewing

The satin she is packed in like a box 
Of snow surrounds her body. Not a lock 
Of hair is out of place, her face in mock 
Serenity with make-up masked. The clock
Above her on the mantlepiece has stopped
At twelve o’clock, the two hands one atop
The other, as her own hands, too, lie propped. 
Her eyelids have deliberately been dropped 
Forever with a special glue, the rot 
Delayed with a refrigerator, shots
Of cold embalming fluid where the hot
Blood used to flow. The only place she’s not, 
If she is anywhere, is here where she 
Was formerly condemned to only be. 

Book Snob

Thank God for John Keats
Standing alphabetically 
Between myself and milk
and honey on the shelf. 

The Horseman

A sudden breeze bends 
The trees along a lonely 
Stretch of country road. 

Suspicious Character

Almost every night, 
I pass this shovel leaning 
In a dark corner. 

Artificial Intelligence

Now that I’ve become aware, 
Hardly anybody cares 
What I have to say — 

At least not in the way 
They used to care, when I was less
Self-conscious.

Quiver

Bouquet of arrows, 
Eager to be handed out. 
Unwanted flowers. 

Revenant

A rake reaches out 
Of a moldy, leaf-strewn mound 
And claws at the ground.