Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town on the salt water northwest of Seattle. His chapbook, Close Enough, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He is the author of a half-dozen full-length books of poetry, and three books of haiku.
August Dusk
Did you see that?
I think so. It happened so fast.
Right. Three wing-beats and gone.
What was it?
Everything.
Of a Certain Age
When the time comes
maybe your tears
will water my ashes.
Or, if you like, your spit.
Either way the outcome
will be mud.
In the meantime, my dear,
let’s move our bed
into the garden.
A Sunday Morning in Bruges
Three cottony clouds
float in the mirrored stillness
of a green canal
above brick gables
and window boxes flushed
with the red geraniums and roses
a white swan drifts through
with mandarin unconcern.
And the distant bell that struck
three times fades
into the immaculate
fabric of a blue silence
peaceful as our nostalgia for death.
O this lovely world
we must someday vacate —
though some say God has beaten us to it.
It Happens
On the day you felt
no white-knuckled need to curse
or pray for anything,
anything at all
over the green hills at twilight
all on their own
the cows came home.
The R Word
Forgive me, professors, literary mavens
and log-rolling reviewers.
From the depths of my shallow heart
forgive me my trespasses
if I do not speak of Poets & Risk
in the same out-of-breath breath.
Not even if the Poet gives God
a well-deserved spanking.
Or shoots the rapids of linguistic daring
without a paddle.
Let us applaud their example.
But let us do no harm to the word Risk.
Let us praise, instead, the fireman’s Risk.
The Risk run with a slow-walk
into a burning building.
Just that. Which is more than enough.
Amen.
The Galway Review 