Beneath the orange, pregnant moon a devil
twitches, waking.  He starts the leaves upon
the ground to walking, trundling off the curb,
fighting, scratching among themselves to gain
the lead. 

The wind is whispering tonight
There: hear the thousand, thousand words
Of holiness stirred into spite
That were i able and not stirred
By any and all voice deterred
Somehow by that creep and that stealth
Might disregard and, blithe, move on
Instead of me, be someone else
Instead hear whispers, turn, be gone;

The decay of today
It bleeds and cracks
and the wound never heals
I sit and I wonder why
the decay of today
blends into the next

Even below the sheen of glass it glittered
bold, all swirls and intricate perfection.
He touched a finger to the glass, traced
the path of circles and arcs, the certain strokes
of a life of clarity never swamped
by its vast anonymity. 

The Shock Doctrine

In the hayloft dust mites spin like lost souls
in a horrid mouth.  In the birthing pen
below straw spills like an idiots’s tongue
Picasso face with Faulkner mind. 

Her eyes, heavy-lidded, fill with a
bitter glaze as it begins to snow and
lights explode into life and holiday
color chases magical round house and
barn as the vacuum milkers throb and stop.