I write poems like a disguise.
I bicycle and I am genius at washing
My favorite science fiction movie
Out grows the house,
You find out in middle age you have an imaginary friend,
Birds are one big computer.
So much of writing
Is conjuring something to do.
Exhaling into a paper bag.
Till it grows like a startled child
In the wind like a crack in the sidewalk.
It’s springtime between the stars.
Into the calligraphy
In the city field, headlong on the rails, a few spray painted
Stars on the passing train.
Each finger of the moon rattles like a windy day.
Opaque like a
Snap of the fingers
Arranged for guitar
The ghosts in your hair
Have misplaced their x-rays
A bicycle moon
That began as an apple blossom.