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 mans 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
pages
of morning white
fingers cup
the wind all night
·
years
of myself
there
another day
outside
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 nightingales quiet
sunrise a riot
high and low tide
the moons 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.