Editor's note:  The following three poems are from Mark's latest chapbook, Appalachian Night.  I am very pleased to tell you that Mark has graciously offered to give out free copies of this wonderful and beautifully-printed book...  In his own words, 'Anyone who would like a copy can just email me: chineseplums@gmail.com  The book is free to any who want. Purely a gift.'  

If I were you I would place my order NOW -- before supplies run out...   -FF



Appalachian Night


Enfolded by pure darkness
a train slips through the hills,
past the occasional litter of homes
leaking garish light.

In a kitchen window, the silhouette
of an enormous man who thinks,
gazing at the train,
he could love anyone on board.





To the Hobo who Flipped Me the Bird When I Waved
 

You are not Walt Whitman,
forget your long white beard and mane,
the way you loaf
on the Oklahoma grass, springing up
electrically to say that I,
in my glittering car,
can go fuck myself.
 
On second thought, you are.





Separated


This motel room, spare,
cool as a shoebox

Perfectly designed
for things that walk away





Bales of Hay
           for MLS, in memory


You knew they dropped from outer space. 

Why not? 
My heart is straw,
the horses of my grief 
are starving on the moon.





Insomnia, Chatham County


Soft rain on the trailer. 
Slow blue light, 
the flesh a mushroom in 
the reemerging woods.





Baby,


all I ever wanted 
was to hug you 
baby-like,
curled up
like John and Yoko,
like armadillos
hiding 
from tumble-weeds
or snoozing 
dogs, potato 
bugs,
wadded up
like poems
in God’s pocket.





Late September


A Providence and Worcester
train-car in the weeds.

Inside, he sips, gazes. 
Five years in the minors,

a connoisseur of silence
and warm beer.





Spring
 

Some echoes never die.
Listen to those frogs
in the pond,
Bash-o
Bash-o






Bill Buckner


A Buddha in spring training,
I felt something 
come
coldly and reached down,
heart open
like a glove.