The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.

Distance and the sandwiches.

I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.

The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.

On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.

Sidewalk puddles

Of the city, the rumor of birds

On the ears of steel rails.

In spring, the robins are first,

In the yards, in the lots,

Even before the worms.

I write

Little poems

Open to interpretation.

Taxi cabs are wisdom.

So are basketball hoops

Screwed to the garage.

And in our glass lives

The outlines

Of light and the sea.

Foraging for paperclips
On the moon

The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos

By tone.

Enumerates the asteroids, some standing like an upright bass.

Makes a note: a foolish nostalgia for the 1980’s is the hobgoblin for neoliberalism.

All the while on stilts with a telescope, the clerk bird watches.

Clouds in the distance like the blushing of elbow smashes.

And so foolish are these ledgers
Chances are

They’re true.