Front Yard

Dragonfly's green thorax
glints mid-flight
against next-door's fence posts'
flaked white paint

      and lands on the sidewalk
in shadow slung
from a spray of nasturtiums
coiled up the side of the porch
      - snail-pocked, flecked
with sun-blanched trash.

      You pluck a few, rinse them
under the garden hose,
slip them past your lips.

Joseph Massey

Joe Massey left a message yesterday: he has a new book out which if it's anything like the last (Eureka Slough from which the above is stolen), will be beautiful and passionate. They're the sort of poems that explode and make your toes curl up in delight. He can say more about connectedness in three short lines than I could in a hundred. Treat yourself.

          here, the one speaking
       & the one
             listening, is you