my dreams are mostly half-conscious
oh of wither-withe season queens
keyhole snowing stars I wake
mostly less aware
of –

while the world’s flow and turn can be
a dream such whole and merry
draughts drink we
and a spirit, cold warm-hearted spirit
leads me to phantasmal dawn
in wandering trellises, carriages
yellow-wheeled
swivel softly – oh feathery dawn, I –

and wide-howling wind is –
the leaves are falling softly
rustle, says the cold blue wind in
red and orange love and lore
faint with mead of fantasy, I
spirit-step into the dreaming memory

that resurrects oh constantly
all dreaming, I am taken by
sleighs, the traveled wool-cloaked sighs,
following
the years that transmigrate
to spirit halfly, bells like laughter
echo down the lays
whose disbelief I share, happily
 (the leaves – oh do remember)
and before the –
oh transcendence

lift me, for I’m elsewhere.

harvest moon

witch-hazel outside
when over hallowed hills the wind
casts summonses to nightshade wand’rers,
who cackle along stealth-sheathed trails, darkly
following the favored grey-hilt wind and shriveled tithes
let fall to dusky ground, when with draped web sighs
the air roves, deftly twined
with silver halfling sorcery
and raveled, crinkling time.

Sir Lancelot's Reprise

Why the water be trenched by sodden suspects;
felled limbs be hardy to gather rags
    but the caught be fetched upon a haunting -
    miser gone in raven-song.

Why crass hearts be for the merry,
forethought to a hollow whispered year;
Why splits rent saw with great causation:
Of cackled cauldron meanings dragged
Around like stale ember-cuts, they call.

Tithe mellow draughts from meagre halls
For all glory's gone and gashed - wherefore
be harnessed? Caught harmless
From the cavern-run of fleeing men,
Cracked hardy slave of turning
Wrangled withered shears.