On a Point (previously published)

The hemlock I sit beneath shadows the
sea, whose currents cool winds that whip salty
spray up to the point, a stage where flowers
dance with deer.  Fawns, asleep on pine spills, wake
when a rabbit squeals, then nibble saplings
rooted in dirt lodged in rock as a fox
flops a meal down in front of her pups.  While
bees pick up pollen and zip between buds,
troupes of bugs crumble fallen oaks, which, in
summers blessed with youth and saved from age, brushed
the sky of white and blue with green.  Below
the woods, grey waves hammer and carve, splatter
their froth on, black-speckled stone; the grains get
bleached in the surf and whooshed back onto the
shore—the colors rush away with the tide.

Winter Heolongjiang Train (previously published)

Bound in layered winter gear, 

loaded with New Year’s gifts, 

the anxious throng jams turnstiles 

to burst into corridors, 

bounce luggage down stairways, 

swarm across platforms, 

and pack the train’s vestibules, 

where standees like me pile up 

like crushed butt filters.  

The concrete pillars of Harbin

creep away.  Inside this pleated 

foyer, cigarette smoke wrinkles 

ice on windows, distorts brown bricks 

of trackside slums as speed builds.

Chain puffers chatter; some save 

my name on their cells.  Between 

the cargo squeezed in the haze, 

vendors wedge carts heaped with snacks.  

Toward reunion we ride 

through the fog of sub-zero temps

outside.  Trees in straight rows abide 

in cryogenic stupors.  

At remote stations, rigid 

sentries mind empty yards.  Austere 

villages bare no distinct paths.

Wiping over frozen sands 

of excavated hills, squalls cast 

snows into mountainside mineshafts,

colossal maws beneath which 

monstrous earthmovers rust.    

Along with ceaseless rumbles 

that sporadic bangs complement, 

rhythmic jostles backed  

by cushioned jolts quiet,

though drafts chill the huddled, 

while desolation remains, 

and destinations close on dreams.    

Sidecar (revised '24, previously published)

Outside a rec hall dance

in Devon, a Brit invites this Yankee 

yardbird in a Harley hat to drink

homemade rum.  My hangover clears 

in winter air whipped by a Triumph’s 

rush through roads carved 

into moors.  As an enclosed double-

seater sidecar rocks my new 

friend’s wife and three daughters— 

five, seven, and nine—café 

racers wheelie past.  After 

kilometers, harried, the Scottish mom

punches Plexiglas; I’m obliged.

Better than a tilt-a-whirl, the sidecar 

bucks while English uplands scroll 

across windows.  The girls clamber 

front to back, climb their guest

in a joyful rumble.  At a barn converted

to a pub, we eat pasties and drink
Guinness.  Beneath a quilt of kids,

I doze as we cycle into dusk.

Graves in the Woods - A Walk on Wansong Hill (revised, previously published)

Amid the mountain’s slopes, to ponder tombs, I foot 

through paths enclosed in understory.  Gnarled roots weave 

about the rocks that keep the slopes contained around 

the platforms; vines draw macrame curtains across 

the altars.  Olive leaves above screen, spangle sun 

upon the scripts engraved in weathered stone, adorned 

with shards of clay, palled with shredded fireworks.  Provoked 

by whistles from the canopy, shadows sashay 

on the calligraphy, dyed in hues of eons,

imbued with lichens and mosses.  While I regard 

these portraits, hikers keep to designated trails, 

count steps up granite stairs, take photos with their friends.  

The town below is framed in smog, where cranes lift slabs 

to high rise skeletons, interred over gridlock.         

Absorbed with tending crops, the farmers camped in tarps

or caves near springs ignore, or just don’t see, me.  Like

the shrines, the little gardens shelter in the trees,

which drape the dried clay terraces with solemn shades.

Island (revised, previously published)

Swimming toward my intended
landfall; as its trees begin
to sink below the horizon,
veiled in xanthous blur;
I ponder Millay's fatigue. 

Stalled on empty breath,
I diffuse my arms and legs,
roll over for a final
view of the sun, and tilt
my head back into
the water casket’s pillow.

Tinsel shards disperse
along the surface, where I laze
and dream, upheld by the expanse.