Love’s Lost Shoes

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.

The Prettiest Prose

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

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

The Room

I like what you did with the room.

What did you do away with?

I thought so.

Have feet summered

Into autumn shoes?

I brought you some icicles.

It was no trouble. The stars are cheap

Tufts of nuclear fusion.

But I would recommend a parade.

There by the window.

But you are much too quiet

For ghosts.