One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.
Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.
Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.
Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.
And there are holiday lights around black holes!
And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.
Are finished with what they have to say.
All the weight is in death’s hands
Under an asparagus moon
If life being little more than
The color of grilled cheese above the sea
To somehow out last
The traffic lights of giraffes
In our pockets
For a nest
A short line
Followed by a longer line
Add fire over
The lack of meaning
And give it hope
Distance is in the kitchen
Washing the dishes
You are drying them
Who drank the last
Of the halos? Deliberately made it rain?
Stole old purses from graffiti
Who lit fire to the last of the rocks?
Knowing very well that this storm
Is bare feet, verses, earth.
The spring wind
I adhere to berry and branch,
Leaf, sunlight in the arteries,
Theater wire and the stars.
I found my coat
Next to the words
I thought for good
Here we are
Into the graffiti of
After transcendence you end up standing in the dirt like the rest of us
Time is a red scarf picked up by darkness.
Light is the celebration of that vision.
The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.
Distance and the sandwiches.
I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.
The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.
On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.