not yet dead
a novelist adjusts
his dustjacket
August 2016
this moon
ah this moon
and this . . .
turning a new leaf
I rewrite my steps away
from the Basho
between breaths
I bear the likeness still
of what the mist conceals
it unfolds
from its grip of green
what it always was
i.m. Jane Reichhold
filling in
between fragment and phrase
an empty space
traced in the wind
the trails of my daughter's
autistic bent
my daughter
has them too
eyes piercing blue
not this tree, no!
here the abstract shadow
of winter trees
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