three bikes rest
against  the porch,
still dusty from an
evening ride – the air
thick with blossom.


cottonwood, eighty
feet tall, sway in
the dry river bed –
you ask me if I
am certain.


leaves fill in
with stars, but a
distant hammer still
clangs – light enough
to do our work.

Under the Two Thirds Moon

Discover a pouch
of tobacco left by a traveler
and roll a cigarette
without the shape
of experience.
Smoke a third
and think about
how maybe this is
what poets do
(you have known
many) – some
use words,
or wisdom,
or simply spend
their hours
beauty making
beneath this moon
on a dimmer
as the light returns,
and returns again.