Tuesday, April 12, 2022



screeching like baby birds

in a crowded nest ~

dumplings frying

on the fourth day

I named the fly


my senile father

eats the fortune cookie

and the fortune

our beautiful old love

on such thin ice

we can't even shiver

a splinter

pulled from my thumb

spit into the fire

because of my old father

my old mother has learned

to make baby food

after the storm

an apology

of soft rain

going out the door

i pass a grape that had

rolled away from breakfast

a fence between

the cemetery and the road

leans toward the road

mountains disappear in fog

and i want to go right along

with them


selected from ~

Ronald Baatz

In A Clay Pig's Eye

Seastone Editions, 2005