Reading Poetry

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Late
at night,
past midnight,
the fan’s hum sporadic
overhead: red wine tastes of wood: thoughts
fade into emptiness
as I read
one last
poem.

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Two Garden Poems

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.

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This
brilliant
poem shines
with no knowledge, the words
empty of meaning, without any
usefulness, a dogwood
blossom the
light breeze
blows.
.

.

.
The
calla
lilies’ curved
yellow horns, the pink-tinged
yarrow, the rich red of the Asian
lilies -- I pick the plump
strawberries
in their
midst.