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

the billboard light
is a broken nose

and the pessimism
of pigeons

almost-

silly silly silly silly
mo
on

on stilts tightrope
lollygagging

we are almost home