ON MOTHER'S DAY

By the railway station
a runaway hops
on a train's caboose
when dusty winds
lops over the plains
the child cut loose
with hunger pains
not yet with memory
of a family name
or secrets to be regained
for his strange fate
as a man
is still to be arranged
in a murmur
for a woman
in first class
who lost her son in war
will not allow
the boy to be orphaned
but takes him as her own,
what else she says,
is a mother's day for.

AN OUTSIDER

As an outsider
like any spider
under a wall
like wild flowers
which devour
tall grass under trees
near the waterfall,
or a bee buzzing
for hours
with a bizarre call,
or a ship's voyager
with a star compass
under a shower of meteors,
the wonder
of a poet's metaphors
cast in language
becomes ours.

SHARK ATTACK

At the spark
of darkness

passes by seals

in your kayak

now turning back,

a last light reveals

its shark attack.

BAUDELAIRE'S LAMENT

Days grow shorter
fearing silent organs
on a dusty armchair
you lapse from mimicry
of a past without a fanfare
or the artist's future
except for Delacroix,
insomnia won't erase you
nor music notes sounding
behind Persian blinds
you lie on springs
for blankets
with undelivered kisses,
it's only your childhood
which puzzles your table
answering in the dark
until the first light
of silence opens you
to the boundless air.

PRELUDE

A cat
under the piano
dislocates Webern
on a forgotten night.

LET GO

Let go,
last petal of Fall
matched point
by the bees
on the tennis court
consenting
to be indicted by words
like a swift sunshine
at the jazz festival
under the hushed air
of the crowds.

SEPTEMBER BLUES

The sky is frozen
yet first light mingles
over the Square
the wings of the last crow
on a heavy wind
send an audible chill
on my left shoulder,
hearing a veiled sax
from budding lips
play over first light
from shuddered tongues
in the public park
near the Esplanade
two runaways
chase after hornets
who sting.