David Zieroth

  “It reached us. It passed us, totally unimpressed.” — from “Small Rain” by Norman MacCaig   storm boughs bucking far up the cedar trunk wave like arms of a woman too busy for fitness, flesh under raised limbs flapping —   each branch conducts a breeze in a direction different from emerald counterparts — paler tones for her virginal upward gestures…

  I am done with love but lust won’t loosen its hold on me   not when new leaves shake and gulls ride thermals   calling, and pink flowers ingest light, fructifying   and bed linen hangs on lines readying fresh nocturnes   and song sparrow hides yet sings   to moon rising, a grape swollen to split…