Can one breathe in the difference between stillness
And silence,
Or smell the curve of the stars or the anatomy
Of a light rain,
The absurd lack of cardinality in the void, how does
That feel?
Something simmers when seeing a major cloud in the
Outline of a minor chord,
Remember to turn off your light before bed
With a wish,
And give to the atmosphere all it would give in
Return.
We have not fully considered the state of falling. For example,
It matters we are hurtling through space. Possibly, on the eve of everything.
And how the dandelion grows and the how the rooftops chatter
In the rain.
And you fall for this. And I fall for this. Like a finger-painted symphony, blue as a sonnet,
In green socks and cutoff shorts and it’s summer. It’s not so bad to fall.
A blue jay
Swirls
A galaxy
Guesses
Likewise
Said the same
The weather
Hypothesizes
The dusk over this city
Is bicycle-blue
Like telepathy
In the wind
And worth running
Away with
And Our Lady of Scrap Paper
Playing the guitar for the dappled pigeons.
The 5 cent poems the clerk at the laundry sells
When not making up her own postage stamps
To give away to whales.
A wind lost before speaking or the metaphysics of standing on one leg
Choreographing a weathervane.
Clouds think in hieroglyphics and pull calligraphy
Out or their bellybuttons. So go
The yesterdays of the future.
The last of the morning fog on the pane.
The full-spooled
Moon for a handkerchief. A sweater with feral seams.
A bicycle that is in love with the sea.
Boxcar sounds in the distance.
A feeling of general unease
Beautiful as ditch flowers and
Make believe tattoos.
The feeling of turning a corner
That never goes away.
And there is nothing else to
Eat, only the flowers born from volcanoes.
A forest took
Shape around your heart and set it adrift in the cloud-work,
Shored along by time and all that chance
And fate and even where beauty lacks order, it fumbles gold.
Now that the orchard is migrating towards the moon.
By whatever pieces necessary we will puzzle.
For sidewalk tramps baptized in the changing of the leaves,
Hurled to other dimensions by the rustle of the seasons, and
For what poetry could be, words adjacent to meaning squished together by music,
And the lemonade of time travel.
A summer
Song sans sense, in electric red,
On air guitar.
And the blue afternoon
For pocket change, a terse notebook
Jotted down in a shirt pocket
To keep poems.
But whatever it is, even the typography
Of space travel,
And if you can, do not
Hold it at arm’s length.
June is airy and incomplete and true and I
Will be getting up before dawn to walk
Along the railroad lines and find any hidden
Imaginary doors or graffiti haiku or a summiting cloud formation
Like a labyrinth of words in the sky.
You took to the railroad lines like a fiddler to a roof.
And the hours out walking, an aficionado of being
For the wind and for the horizon and for the fields.
You took home the sweat of summer,
And into the night, the dimpled ribbon of the moon
Unravels along an airy topography. You are enlivened
By the malady of wing and antenna as the butterfly
Tops the ironweed. Like the evening dusk piled on the blue sky,
And above that, the night without any currency
Of its own giving away everything.
naïve haircuts 