Frank Parker

w i l d  w i t h  s p r i n g


A lettuce field
   a deep ravine
      holes caves shacks
pieces of wood scraps

the edge of a hole
an old man’s hair

My own father
asking his questions,
making me shake. His life in a box.


through street light pine-
                                needles O
                        moon bruised clouds

electric skyline
blue streets
up and down
Spaghetti Hill

sea lions bark
from the Coast Guard
pier below


words go out
I hear my heart
a red crown
in a dark sea
of morning white
fingers cup
the wind all night


of myself

another day

my grasp


a flute the moon a tiny heart
sleepless music on the water
all there is everywhere at once
and anywhere you point points back
to you at the speed of light
name this thing a separate being
in a crisis of perception
who is whose reflection


the nightingale’s quiet

sunrise a riot

high and low tide

the moon’s second sight

a star to me


the world begins
in my mouth

the fierce clear light
between a caterpillar and a cloud
Copyright 2000, Frank Parker. All rights reserved.