"Seriously," I thought, "I can work
My way back to the center."
It's a conversation I'd already had
But I felt sure it needed a beginning.
With one hand on the wheel and the
Other on my mantra I looked back to
Where I'd come from. I decided it
Would be best if I backed my way
Up to the emergency exit so I could
Get a running start.
"At least you've got your health."
He smiled into my wet windy face.
"What?" he cocked his head, hand to ear.
"I said I'm getting there."
The aquarium day tilted it's light
Toward my cap, featuring it in the
Rearview mirror. At the light I
Noticed two derivatives in the trash
Bin by the crosswalk. They looked
Tired, the color of two day old key
Lime pie. I could taste the tang.
But I knew if they came for me I
Could move on. The operation
Had been successful.

Let each eye be a swan
That I may know the feeling
Of that movement that I
Know as sight. Let sight
be a mixture of transparency
And dark wet earth, of the
Rough edge of a camel's back,
Held together by the cold blue
Sky. Churn these bits into
Movement and the idea that I
Send out my world when
It's ready, when it's the
Yellow of an egg, and not
A moment too soon.

In the yellow morning-
My binoculars, high up
In a tree-was I a sleep
Climber? Out on the silvery
Deck, beyond the forest
Glass,  a Downy pooed
On my shoulder. A
Tiny wet newspaper.
I carefully read this:
"Empty what is full.
Fill what is empty."
The faded flags flapped,
The feeder swayed, and
Charcoal feathers shimmered.

In the late afternoon sun
We crossed paths in the
Shadows. He elevated,
Turned as if suspended
By wire and ambled down
The slope. Then it seemed
My hands were inside him,
Outside any clock- moving
about -directing him to a
Log. There he lifted up, looking
Back at my pale face, those eyes
Streaked shiny with black war
Paint,  made up by bigger hands.
I remembered my childhood then,
A silly facsimile perched on my
Head, the ringed tail thumping
Between my shoulder blades,
A plastic flintlock in my hand,
The moccasins.

Small silver face out of the gray

I call it a deer in a phantom forest
Baader-Meinhof with a future

Smoke of assassination
Burning of oil

Maybe it's trees that have broken away
Or clouds around them

A dragon-shaped smear on a window


But there is a moment of clarity
When nothing is out there

Now I call it an asshole
In  fiery red clothing

Light shoots from its finger
Like wind with hair

Is it an alien cowering
In the rape robe of war?

Mother and child on an icy globe?

Or just the eyes of day.


-Fanny Howe

Sometimes a goodbye

seems a bee's
done buzzing

earily: purrs
in hair, furred

for the sting.
Fear's then

a hurt-leap.
Time comes in

like the words
Sit down.

Your nerves
reverses.

- Fanny Howe

Technically I saw it before it
Happened. The fog machine,
No bell, no horn, no light save
Mine. The three of them there
In quick prophecy, the little
Glance forward, stepping out
In front of me, the horrific
Shattering of bodies, the air,
And car. But I slowed during
The preview, And still they
Waited for me, coming to meet
me... I could not stop again.
She watched me,  then leaped
Through the warning sight, sliding
Across the red hood, dimpling the
Fender, smearing her bloody nose
Along the glass, landing upside
Down, like a stiff-legged toy. My
Watch had stopped, there were
Fireflies highlighting her as she
Lay in a whorl of high grass. Then
Rolling and rising she was gone
Zipped away in the fog, leaving
Only an impression, alive, rising
In its own orderly way. In a few
Days this grass would not recall
Anything. The wind would comb it
Like Elvis after a nasty fall. Until
Things were good, and the memory,
Not quite dry in that wind, was only
Mine.