milky way

at the crack of dawn
a rooster crowing far away . . . 
the last days of winter

waking from a jetlag dream
the sound of cats in love

flowers falling
from the Judas tree 
memories of childhood

gazing into the rock pool
scent of fish and chips  

cold moon dipping
behind the hills, the horizon
seems to draw nearer

crunched snow glitters in the night
approaching the warmth of indoors


flushing away 
the last bag of speed
one day clean

a mind flooded with dark thoughts
standing at the crossroads again

the blues guitarist 
solos with a broken string
to roaring applause 

above the river delta
clouds drifting out to sea

catching the red-eye 
my mind wanders until you 
point out the flight map

on a forest bike trail
tonguing the autumn rain

the snake awaiting 
its prey, a stick in the spokes 
makes the world happen

grumble of a wild boar
the archer checks his quiver

a corn tortilla, 
the last one in the basket, 
is it you or me

first picnic of the year —
three with the sun and my shadow

cherry blossoms
a lone swan swims past
the river bank

upon arrival, the trees 
already bare: April fools

at the train station
the trash can fills up
with shiny sweet wrappers 

vapor escaping the bamboo steamer 
of the busy bao stall

first light
missing her

tamping the coffee with a spoon 
the way you used to do

summer rain
I cook for two, lay the table for two,
then eat alone

the line of ants marching on
from where to where I know not

a homeless man
speaks of the Bible

antediluvian conspiracies; 
a leak in the roof

a lounge lizard
swims another length
of the hotel pool

sunning itself on a rock 
the bush clover's shadow

harvest moon
in Madrid, longing for

vile garrote at his neck
the bandit Luis Candelas 


two girls argue
over who puts the collar
on the puppy 

baptized baby's gibberish
drowning out clumsy Latin

in the distance 
the sound of an explosion 
motionless mime

the willows burst under the fireworks
then return to darkness 

cherry blossoms
landing on the cabbage 
a white butterfly 

the child’s kite swoops
back towards the hilltop


Danny Blackwell and Tim Murphy