I see you, Descartes, every night
on the local weather forecast
your tight skirt and your isobars
your rain that always goes elsewhere
so much in this house that’s got to go
the shag carpet, for instance
and the cedar shake roof
with its metropolis of fruit bats
but my wife insists the first thing
we need is an oak toilet seat
wood won’t be so cold at night, she says
something about trees, I guess
those bridges between rock and thought
like the shimmering tail feathers
of a dream I can’t quite remember
the barrel clown in his makeup
coughs another dawn onto the window
until the world is bathed in its own light again
and the angel in the high branches
sits down to listen to the mockingbirds
and the sirens asking their questions
the ants gently milking the aphids
and the chaplain on the runway below
blessing the B-29s
short stories, prose poems, and poetry have appeared in Rattle, Gold Man Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The North American Review, Mississippi Review, Ascent, Grub Street, Up the Staircase, and other nice places, including numerous anthologies. He lives with his wife Dionne in Escondido, California.