A full moon in the birdbath, a perfect circle of ice blunting sparrow beaks. Cold stings the first knuckle of each finger breaking small pieces of bread from a slice now half its original size. I laugh out loud at the morning headlines, "St. Francis of Tucson, Bread Man to the birds, found wanting for nothing ever again, a freeze in the cactus garden of the Tucson basin."
a plum, happy lungs, a radio in touch
Frank is . . .
a hungry ghost gripping the wheel
old man saguaro, the hum of blood, the sun, a glow
pajama sleeves, morning's radiance, unspeakable things
the compass in my pocket, whatever
the wheel, fallen leaves
-- Frank Parker