On the Pass
I think I heard the water speak
When passing by the frozen creek.
I do not know where lay the mouth;
I left the pass to take a peek.
Still a child, I began.
I do not know which way it ran;
The water held its icy tongues
And told the child nor the man.
I followed till the creek ran dry.
I follow still, I know not why.
I think I heard the water speak
But cannot manage to reply.
Spook
Like a certain syntax, they appear:
a witch, a ghost,
the miniature-sized zorro.
This night shares something of form.
It exposes vertebrae, a skeleton
like pumpkins
carved stubbornly with bread knifes.
Its matter is of expression:
Tangled beneath the opulence of costume
and the ascending moonlight that travels
portentously down the little witch’s
plastic nose,
the ineffable sentiment
of this night’s reflective glare,
oscillates toward the known day.
Is this moment the irremediable gasp of sense?
Of nomenclation,
and memory?
I am frank with myself,
I do not know.
For now, I’ll stand with my basket of milk duds,
another muddy shadow under a porch light,
or something else entirely,
in this formidable night.