There is nothing to it, just the celestial waddle, the fathom
And its resonations, and me in the field, coming out
Just at the rail-lines, to the elm leaves dry
In the wind, the insects happenstance to the point of 
Symphony, there is nothing to it, a sandwich and coffee,
A thrift-store shirt, a universe untethered of linguistics,
A yellow flower tethered to the sun, the sound of gravel
And stones under my shoes, and everywhere 
Eternity and the void and immanence,  
Time parceled by our perceptual apparatus,
The squeezing out of space in its expansion,
The rivals of here and there, the fealty
Of wonderous slam-dance-like verse stealing its vistas
From the sinewy miles of summer afternoons, to traverse
In mass and gravity and beauty and lost and spotting
The horizon its distant due, and now the train punching
Its own due along the lines and me standing
Maybe too close that I feel its force pushing the air
Apart, till it is gone and the quite field like an intermezzo,
And maybe I’ll go to the movies tonight, afterwards, sit out 
By the Niagara River and think of the Falls and smoke
A joint and just listen to the cricket song.

All this going on, everywhere, summed, unsummed, unavoidable, cosmic, chanced, the notes wrung every which way, cascading, blistering,

Reading, lying around, unsweetened tea, walking, daydreaming, Sunday afternoon movies, coffee, sandwiches, coming home under the streetlight cones,

The uncommitted morning, the planets in such and such orbits, like the potted flowers lining the windows, or in mischievous moments of transcendence walks right out into the sky themed with transience and beauty,

The August rain, the beans in a pot boiling for hours, the Black-eyed Susans in a mason jar on the table, Garbage by A R Ammons,

Facing the wind, in the stark posture of departing, a few lines committed to future stars and to what’s left of the rain, but mostly in the waltz of these determined steps.

That trace the lung swelling light of summer stars,
That heave with the magnificence, even the banality, of a cosmic florist.
I lunge through the streetlights
Sleeves rolled up like capsized moons,
My faded tattoos say it all, a greasy tee shirt straddled to a solitary
Poetic enthusiasm,

The fevers and quests, the lost diagnosis, the tall grass, the goldenrod, the slumped impartial hot summer night, the horizon on the tip of the tongue, speaking for all that is lost and is to come,

The dusk spilled up and into the storm clouds rolling out, and now a clever part in the trees where the moon sorts its steps, and grumbles like a too-neat handwriting.

A swirling poem, up on one leg, each wing
Dipping into the dark, each swirl widening
Into the light.

Finally, the moon had to hear it. All this about metaphysical
Cereal bowls, and how the morning arrives on invisible wings.

The afternoon
Encourages intimation, like the rain after a dry month. And of
The stars, is how we got here. To have a go at it ourselves.

Neither the moon nor the sea deliberates, though both know
More than they are willing to say. Galaxies capped by super
Massive black holes. Spiderwebs in the corners of the front
Porch. The sound of wind chimes and the life span of the sun
Are on the same page.

Sitting on my porch. The traces of stars almost pretend to appear.
Tired legs, unsweetened tea, closed book, worn out chair, still cat.

The sky, a shell above the dark leaves and shingled rooftops, left there by a child.
Our cosmos forked, espoused of branch and bloom, bite and wing. Penniless as an imaginary metropolis.