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.
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
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.
There is no truth to what I’m saying, no pegs
To hang your coat on.
If you wish for a hat rack, somewhere to lay you head,
You’ll find no sympathy here.
Only an obscure joy
Pressing its fins
Against the sea of yourself
With nothing to lose`
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
is silence visceral
is it in the fabric
can it toss and
turn
afterwards the bell
in the tower
held its breath
can it
poke holes in paper and
turn them into the stars
00000000000★
how could it
communicate
does it have a
homemade sandwich
for a heart
like the rest of us
If birth has no ending
And death has no beginning
Can we
The better revolt of joy and reverence
Between us
