A certain carelessness
In a perfect circle
It is too ripe and crude
A coarse bird
That fits in too well with the broken shore
Unlike the polluting smoke of industry
As it catches the closing beams of the sun
A rosette triumph
A too perfect charade
The sad of it
Is lonesome sky
The heart on a hill
Frost on a barbed wire fence
Where to begin to repair
The midlife heart
In what room to begin to laugh
And when to say
This has passed
And it will be one with us
What hole is deep enough
To make permanent the moonlight
And if the stars
Come looking for alms
I will remind them
I have only the sense
For purse strings
God jumps in first with a belly flop.
But everything God does is beautiful, and this starts all of creation.
Just don’t tell this to the Abyss.
Not that you can. Be certain of this. You can’t.
Next the swimmers, tattoos of birds on their bodies, in search of fish,
Along the roads in the air of October the first frost between their teeth,
As the sky unfurls into handfuls of dusk.
At night, the moon is the butterfly on the city stoop,
Crayon crossed out by crayon.
The wind is the blueprint, said the parachute.
And the Earth is our wind. The sunlight is both even and odd.
I purchase sheet music, and some boxes,
Because my head is cluttered
With the snow
Falling into the street lamps,
With unsighted poems and handfuls of dusk.
What else can I do?
In this city, and this poem like a periscope. And
When beauty hurts, when it is ugly, ferociously so, and it will be,
Try a belly flop in the neighborhood pool.
Mouthing your every adieu to the Abyss.
I have lost my piano hand. The banter on Saturn rings in my ears
(that’s a terrible joke). A few of the handkerchiefs smell like
operas. During the night, the ghosts arrive to try on my socks,
and to read whatever book I am reading backwards to me.
I have found a violin hand. Tonight I will camp out “under the stars”
with Quixote and Pooh Bear.
The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
that. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
color is the electrical structures and the graffiti wire.
There is dire in blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
equations at a later date.
At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy
a helicopter. And have that ankle looked at.
Silence likes to doodle, intentional as clouds.
In a sweater, the handlebars are autumn, even as it rains.
While riding a bike.
Part of it is the dust from stars. Some of it rolls in the ground,
like a season.
Take a bow, ripple with the sea. Each leaf before it catches hold
of the earth
The foot is disheveled.
The armpit is the moon.
And what lessons have the rain
To letter at night alone without
Legs or thoughts?
What does it mean to be human
When the heart and lungs are a marathon
You cannot cross out the distance.
Cup sorrow in your hands
But to be abbreviated in this light
If death cannot cull these questions
At least the ice cream truck tonight rings
A symphony for a fake piano
In pencil in the night in a sky that cannot be seen.