For Bob Arner

published in The Argotist

During last fall’s rehearsal

the wind spoke to earth in quarter inches, pacing each dropping leaf

to the plash of the water

losing itself in a zillion facets of ice


The pond gives way to broken glass,

ghosts of objects, gray-bodies, crying out in a witchy voice

Hello bone of my foot

Hello kiss me starry sky


when ghost birds with baby cries


flap like stray scrap across the

brassy garden


We will someday assemble an art together

that is all of that