Late

These late 

autumn days 

with their rolling 

gray canvas 

spattered with

earth and fire 

they go flying 

through our eyes

past tilted suns
burning themselves away.

My daughter and I 

spend hour after hour

in the park

cataloging each leaf

and making tiny 

worlds with them. 

Little constructions.

She is all energy

fighting to keep moving

right up until

the last moment 

before sleep 

stills her tiny body.

At night the rains

blow across the rooftops

as refugees walk

through forests

with their children.

On the way to work

in the thick darkness

news of our wars

tumbles out of the radio.

Cars race past 

with red coals glowing 

in their driver’s chests

a weakened cardinal 

all ember and wings 

is quietly breathing 

in mine.

Another winter 
walks just outside
the gates of the city.
Our time grows short.

And perhaps the world 
calls for something else

as hard as that may be.

.

canoeing the wilderness

For Jenny

                                                                   Mitza's Hands by Jenny Heineman

Weak with exhaustion

deep within the ancient 

labyrinth of lakes

storms from the past

blow our map

into the waves.

Everything now

depends on our response

to being lost.

.

Helmet

The thunderstorm rolls

its empty oil barrels

across the ceiling 

with black 
arms dropping 

to the prairie floor.

The insects 

are in a panic

without knowing why.

The moon arrives late

looking unwashed.

Blacking out 
and coming to

in the gaps.

In the morning

the squirrels 

are pissed 

and who can 

blame them

flinging black walnuts

from the heights

in back yard.

The baby 
must wear

a helmet 
out there.

The last deep heat 

of the summer

soaks me through

and through

and lays me out

by midday.

Such sensual

dis-ease.

The dead look on 

with longing.

Through the three 

small windows 

above the couch

the deep blue

calls and 
       calls and 
                 calls.

The summer 
is ending

before our eyes.

A second bat

is sent off 

to be tested

for rabies.

She came in

searching 

for her lover

who disappeared
inside the 
square cave 

three weeks ago.

All her nights 

of whirling trees 

and wild stars
are euthanized

then flash frozen 

and bisected.

The spiders 

work hard

to re-anchor 

the house

to the trees.

The snake writes

its dark green poem

in curves across

the porch floor.

The raccoons 

gather and stare 

in our second 

story window 
wondering how 
did those creatures

become trapped

inside that box?

And here we go

over the falls 

the golden river

of summer 
disappearing 

in an instant.

As if our lives 

are passing

in a day.

As if it’s all 
disappearing.

As if 

the disappearing

is becoming 

less invisible

as the red 

music

of the fall
begins.

.

Red

                        The Goddess of Whores by Jenny Heineman

There is 

a red ribbon

of liquid

flowing

so quickly

just behind 

your head.

Or is it 

a bolide

in the back 

of your head?

You can’t see it

but there it is.

Love now

as if it were 

the only food,

as if you 

are falling 

and love 

is a rope.

A tiny 

red river

of fire

going

going . . .

.