Just Any Poem

To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders
And elbows.

The poem can be

Black as a match head.
Vigilante as applesauce.

A wink in the thunder.
A thud on the daisies.

An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons.

Wish me luck.

City Walk

I write of my city walks
The sandwiches I eat

I write of the solitude
And the presence

I think you will laugh
I think your elbows are distant clouds

I walk the rail road lines
I say nothing for days

I plot my take
On the world
In rain puddles

With a November
Leaf
As chief science officer

Love’s Lost Shoes

My tee shirt jumped out the window.

The sunset bellowed like a turning leaf.

Thunder did not wait to ring the doorbell.

This may seem but abandonment, and it is,

But what’s more, it is a new pocket

And the whispery laces of love’s lost shoes,

The derangement made tidy by

The universe, shadows in doorways, April’s

Chill roads and rainy fingers, the blistery rings.

You can hear quiet became aware

Of the silence arriving.

It is a fact that Saturn is a planet.

And to live is to with one

Heart bear the weight of sorrow and summer mornings.

The moon is not insured,

It has always been that way.

The Prettiest Prose

I can’t complain. Hercules
Was metaphysic. The heart
Of an angel is isosceles. But
Seriously. I’m doing alright.

The day shrunk into the
City edges. You know what
I mean. For a second it is
The deep sea. What pinks.
What finery.

The graffiti isn’t in a hurry
To go. The house
Is old anyway. And the lawn
Thank goodness is dandelion
Messy.

Just the blue and the purple-blue shapes that spin and collect the stuff the pushes down on time.

A rake of leaves
Without a handle
Without a lawn

The picture you tore and sold as a souvenir

Of a hallow moon

Arms pining for the old gods