The chinking
Between the logs
Has come loose
Borne away
To other’s comfort
Leavening
A multitude of
Scuttling claws
And teeth
To bristle nests
At the gaps
The wind
Can freely
Enter
Rudely
Self-inviting
Threatening
Stupidity
The doors
And windows
Front to back
Line up
You could shoot
Right through
This un-winged crib
These lots
Them that keep
Can earn
Their salt
But will never make
A decent pile
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
An explication
Of starlight
Is a reach
Unwonted
When this
Short phase
Puddled at
My feet
Stays unblown
About my wate
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
Sleepless as are
Those grasses
Still standing
By November
A moist wicking frost
Peals through
Once tongued creeks
While the deer
Retreat
To their
Upland beds
Which evidence
I hunt
Unarmed
And wake
In a scarlet
Dawning fever
The ridges
Have been
Redrawn
In my bones
Sinew sown
Inviting shadow
This season being
My true berth
Tightened
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
Short of measuring
This pressing street
How many stand
Has yet
To meet
The place
In the walk
Yet to concrete
This slumping
Of the test
Repeat
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
Bill and Dot
With kubla can
Fetched some water
In Allemagne
To slake
This strictly
Thirsty pan
With angel tears
Incontinent
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
You profess
Guilt
Openly furtive
And furry
As a squirrel
On a wire
Then digging
Digging
Then with
A mouthful
Of leaves
Who is guilty
Of the cold
That seeks
Its favor
Between the cracks
Indifferent to
Any saving
Race
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
That side road
We took
Slowly
To light on
Free boxes
And tintypes
Of dead friends
And couples
Their brass
Retouched
Now drives
Like a turnpike
In a two-door
Coup
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
Still there may be
Soothing thoughts
Sprung from
You, man
Suffering
Yet to bow
To a prince
Lee thrown
A soul be
Which
Cannot be soled
But narrow- scaped
From a ledger
Demain
Foot -held
To conjure
The valley dew
Yea, though
To walk
Mist- prismed
Into the shadows
Of mourning
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
A chopping wind
Cuts
Then runs
Tearing heads
Off trees
And Hudson
Whitecaps
Next to slate blue
Winding
Rivers
Down from
West 79th
How often
Does this wester
Clear
Then clog again
With periods
Leaving
Across talk
Heels
To pedestrian
Sound
Whistling through
These citied
Blocks
Falling
At the touch
Of winter
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
White planks
Wide
Before pining
Became obsolete
Got replaced by
Lumbering
Cedar swamps
Rooted
In the darkest
Brack
Brought to knees
Over drawn
And under dug
Split out
In the ginning
Mill
Whose kin
Does the steward
Quarter decked
Flay upon
The flying cloud
Flown to bark
Another stage
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
