IMPROVISATIONAL DANCING

Dancing up the stairs

with a jealous sibling

looks a lot like feigning

death: It feels so personal.

Dancing in the shadows

of mountains feels like

wisdom. It’s as mysterious

as the field covered

in a darker light.

Dancing alone as winter

approaches is revered, even

though it still isn’t enough.

You have to believe

the feet must be crazy!

Dancing to Stravinsky gets

to the teeth of the matter.

It’s your bag, baby; go

dancing by yourself past

hidden doors of diplomacy.

Dancing with arrows

that bloom like roses

brings maids to their knees.

Shh, they’re attending church.

Dancing in the first pavilion

of childhood is sacred.

If you see horseshoe crabs

having sex, sing the blues,

a song they know by heart.

Dancing across a yard

of yellow washes away sins,

and dancing close to the green

robe of intelligence shapes

your body into moving art.

EYES OF THE MOAI

The telescope of time looks inside me and sees

colors for the colorblind (but doesn’t reject them).

And the loudest will make me dance all night

through snow I hold sacred. Now I know

what to wear when working with bees

and still not finding the right mentality.

O glowy night! I feel like following the coast

to a sad ending of salt marsh and beach pavilion.

My plan is to enchant the moon with a fabulous

array of art. I can’t imagine viewing a masterpiece

without feeling a singular buzz. That’s my edge.

The green menagerie of grass inside my ear

promises me bigger things to come.

And, yes, the moai have eyes that tell a story.

Trust me, they can pray, too. They mourn;

they pray; they wait for weary pilgrims

to save them, to guard their flocks of gulls.

TOUCHING BASE WITH ISSA’S FRIENDS

i.

Butterflies are

wandering along the road:

decisions, decisions.

ii.

It’s all clear now:

the grasshopper comes

to the palm of your hand.

iii.

Male crickets

are crying.

They’re everywhere!

iv.

O caterpillar!

What’s getting under

your skin this spring?

v.

A moth lost in the fog.

One by one,

lights go out.

 vi.

Where have you been,

black flies?

I’m still alive!

vii.

Lightning bugs popping up

across the pond.

Here they come, there they go.

viii.

The secret to happiness?

Make the wind

spin spider silk.

ix.

So long, mosquitoes—

I’m hungry

(but only a little).

x.

Hornets, must

you sleep at night

under the Ferris wheel?

 xi.

Cicadas arise from

miles of stone walls,

bidding August goodbye.

xii.

The perfect eulogy:

some snail

waiting to be born.

xiii.

Ladybug, ladybug,

fly into the garden.

It’s moon-walking season.