October

She stands shivering
in the autumn night
beyond the noise of the bar
phone to her ear
cigarette burning in her other hand

He sits in his car
at the gas station pay phone
the radio turned low
playing jazz

She paces back & forth
against the cold
notices her reflection in the window–
turns away

He doesn't know why he called.
She wishes he hadn't.
They have nothing more to say to each other.
Neither is willing
to hang up.

What To Pray For (Passer Domesticus)

The moon cracks open
and sparrows fall from its heart:
The world fills with song.

But one perfect bird
will die tonight
under the wheels of someone tuning their radio.

Pray that it isn't you.

Federico Garcia Lorca Reminds Me of Robert Frost

On a night like this
you can hear the ropes creaking
in their pulleys as the moon rises,
and the click and hiss
of each star coming on,
a hum of machinery sounding
almost like wind through the trees

When a coyote knifes the darkness,
you think of sirens.
When an owl echoes your question,
unseen,
you look for a door to lock,
a window to latch.
You pull your coat tighter
to your chest, and try
to remember that song from Sunday School;
but all that comes to your mouth
is the iron-salt taste
of your own blood.

It's then that you look down two roads
and wish you had paid more attention
to that poem
you had to read for class
years
and years
ago.