the werewolf's pecker

anybody could see that it barely cleared fur
you would think such a brute

the werewolf's pecker

Bring, it sings.

antenna

a song about bold strokes

on a giant canvas

by an unknown

master of it

eastern red cedar

they gather where the seeds were shit
by cedar waxwings,  and others
a bushhog is a mere inconvenience
caring for one will kill it
they live at the margins
of where work has been done
leaning with iced over branches

connection in the rattle

Definitely voices.
Voices like baseball radio on a boat going by.
More than one voice, but you can't tell them apart.
Describing something you can hear happening where they are.
Stuttering, monotonous, vaguely excited with storm static.
Far off dogs, treed, gusting wind, fire cracking.
Whiporwill songs from the waterfall. 
The truck running cold.
Signals fresh off the sparking black roof of the earth.

tiny bubbles

fer george

the panic of running out,
the good stuff, the good
stuff running out, flash
flood, fast falling flow, flown,
fled, flying forth forever
into forgotten. this
will be like that, now,
like that, like that time,
time that quietly moved
and spread out its hands
across the face of that
round eager urge knowing
only that it knew, then,
only then it knew.

or, he said, write a goddam poem,
said he, who said write it, who
spoke of doom and brute dying,
wasted grieving, who grieved,
who waited drunk at the edge,
with me, the echoes rushing