The early bright, I am my father—

wooden heron; shorn & streamfed.

Over yonder,         seeded loam.

The shallows.    An earth in layers.

Of the stable boy—absent—I will not

comment. A flask then, to seize the day.

Of the day: as any other—spectacle. All

things sundried. All things sketched bright.


Lunchtime, a dying calf in my lap.  Feet,

sour.      With hands, the ending is quicker.

Of hands: to dig deep.      And by night?

I am homebound;             sleep is a friend.


My cancers in wait for morrow.

This :: seasonal.   Interlude.

The Nudist

Wood to stoke this fire &

so a sea of trees at my feet.

Soon, a baby fennec.

The silt road to an aspen glade.

And just below the bend?

Wrapped in bramble leaves,

the girl from my dreams.

Mouth full of river

and fish for hair.

Jay calls the silent streets of Floral Park, NY, home. His newfound interests—appearing in his more recent poems—include the woods, fish, and the hidden dangers within small town settings.