a straw cowboy hat
a cantaloupe sunrise a snow glazed ridgeline
a white-crowned sparrow in a willow
a narrow wallpapered hallway its doors all closed
a white wicker hamper
a diner glinting stainless under a palm tree
you are someone else you cannot be known
headlights on the dirt road at 5:00 a.m.
a raven hunched on a cedar fence post
a black madonna
a haystack draped with a silver tarp
a styrofoam coffee cup
what does memory show
a sheet of beeswax for candles
a waxing moon electrifying the snow
you are someone else you cannot be known
a green linen sport coat
a blue glass mixing bowl
a ticket stub you can’t recall the film
a line that divides & connects
frost constellated across this morning’s windshield
reflections in a resonator guitar
a stainless steel measuring cup a red plastic handle
a magnolia petal like a sob & another
the naked thorn trees the January garden
a ring-neck pheasant forages next to the tall hedge
a highway’s divided line
Jack Hayes
© 2010
“In every heart there should be one grief that is like a well in the desert.”
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