I think the dead are singing

or so I gather from their mouths.
I do not like the boat I'm in-
it has no oars
and the big black water has no fish
or prawns so am I wrong?
 
The dead look like angels painted
touching and leaning and grouped
toward some understood truth
that Anonymous knew.
I don't like the car I'm in
it has no horn and the brakes don't work
so what's the use of youth?
 
The dead move like curtains
lifted by the wind. The windows are opened
and let the sun and the snow right in.
The dead seem to have no feet no need
for shoes they drift.
I shuffle along in my orthopedic shoes
poor circulation forcing me to lean on polls
in the street. I think I will join them soon
they are so neat.
 
 
-
 

Shining is asleep now

under the snow
and the plow in the barn
cuts the wind in two.
The tractor is graced
with a glaze of ice
and doesn't move
from its prominent place.
 
The sun is minted.
It does its work
in the subterranean hollows
of the hardened ground deftly.
Stirring deep is summoned growth
an off camera sex scene.
 
And underground in the nether hole
It’s pooling. She's moistening below.
It's a joy to know that out of sight
she's blooming like a nubile girl
bound to be seduced by a vital force
and show her charms
in sons and daughters of light and warmth.
 
It can’t happen soon enough.