after Puddle Paintings 2006-2015, a series by Joel Sheesley

the ghost of a tree rose, like the hem of a lover’s discarded shift:
a pale ring of toadstools in a suburban lawn on its graveyard shift

puddles serve up liquid dishes of birds in augury or rapture—
world of sky in the asphalt fissures at our feet, starred in seismic shift

a prayer felt, knelt in humble access for the two hearts’ indwelling:
I need to be inside you, growled or whispered thru the dark ark, shifting

wings above and below, on Jacob’s ladder; the word is sung to woo
in milkyway wonder; the two small songbirds on her chest arouse, shift

comes the poet, to taste the spit and healing hand of the son of man
in the intimate space of a mouth, tongue loosed in supercharged upshift