from: Moss


An asexual clone autobiography
Pollinates air with morning sex
Embellished with cartoon detail
Wind boarders between touch
With a dusty spore edged skin
Some flowering some sprouting
Soaked with the pushing function
Wet with a chill recursive lifetime
And stripped to pores and pithy eyes 




no crows fly over our moon tonight
though we wish them to and the river
is not the boat floating kind with oars
dipping butt littered cement squares
bright with green fleece and steel
beams tangle with low stars and clouds
we cross to finish jokes and drink
to resident thoughts on motherhood
and bus price alternatives in yards
of gnomes hidden in surprise while
vacuums cover the drama of tv but
we want to wake up early and can’t
sleep as tree limbs scrape windows
with windy night and rain whispers




Spring moss sops wrap limbs with white flaring flowers and sticky flower smells. Or a pink blast shatters over the street. Stone walls hold dirt back filled with soft yellow daffodils that blaze at night. In wild rhododendron and holly jungle landscapes pine tucks oak and cedar shingles bright with warm window invitations. 




file A records: no retorts
         but in car dents
and gravity’s slow pull
         on pine cones
shaped in a noisy
         chaos background
of weather maps
         catching the train
 and file B states: 
         morning socks and
cereal crunch in a blue-
         black skyscape
signals grey rain back




when there is no rain only sun
bent ashes steeple shadows
for a house’s height enclave

transparent fences and gates
lead out from any approach
when there is no rain only sun

cedar and fir’s copper bark shines
when there is no rain only sun
filtered through a yard shade web




Michael Rerick currently lives and teaches in Portland, OR. Work recently appears or is forthcoming at Angel City ReviewParenthesesPorridgeRivet JournalSwitchback,S/Word,andWaccomaw.He is also the author of In Ways Impossible to FoldmorefromThe Kingdom of BlizzardsThe Switch Yards, and X-Ray