Michael McCulley


Graveyard Dust

Fence posts are broken off at the ground,
field-wire snarls fret the brush,
seven oxen occupy the field.
Black-eyed Susans look up
from cool dirt, tall grass
is eaten, or trampled,
large heads sway side-to-side.
Dark clouds build on the eastern plain,
even the air is edgy and taut,
a quail, a snipe, a spark erupts in the air,
large heads thump across the creek,
surge to the trees and into
a graveyard, tipping stones,
and troubling yellow dust.
Side-to-side large heads sway.
Things are going to get better
later tonight, or in the morning,
so I’ll just wait around.


A Place To Sleep

In golden commotion the sun slides down
over the edge, over the lip,
and a glass of wine. A slender moon
rises behind trees, darkness rises
from the floor and coats the walls.
A dark thick pervades the room,
deadens old voices, I can’t hear
my own barter. My temper is outside,
under the star dome, under the clouds.
I walk into the night street
and find the doorway to my inner cell.
Standing in the doorway looking down
the street is like standing on a beach
thinking across ocean swells,
mythic people chant,
lanterns rock slowly back and forth.
A doorway where I can be alone,
a place to sleep.


Late Autumn

I know the marshland
below my hermitage
the way I know the tavern
at the end of the street.
Wrens glean brown tulles,
roots deep in black water,
crows perch on branches
long free of blossoms.


Great Blue Heron

Juliette leans, sways like marsh grass
dithering in a breeze, seed head
lopped over, errant plume hangs.
Juliette’s exposed to peril, moves on
to stay ahead, to find a bar,
a mudflat where needs are satisfied,
fish are picked clean. Alights,
settles on a hummock, neck doubled
in, waits for change in the tide,
in the rain, in the darkness
sleeps light on a dicey perch.