Even if, and this is
Stretching it, besides,
Where are wild
Flowers, some as tall
As parking meters?
Sunlight, lost
In the blinds, even so,
Why are all my
Poems so random?
Just as well,
The moon is famished,
Fathom-weary,
Just look at me, it says,
I am dust and stone!
You don’t say? As for me,
A quantum and rye sandwich
In glasses.
A flaneur with the zeal
Of an amateur zine.
Please remember
How November
Left a shadow
In my cereal bowl.
How rage is the shading
On the stars.
So they can exist in 3D.
I know you won’t believe me.
How humor tripped over
Its own scorched soul
Solicit
ing the desert
For wisdom.
The sky
Numbered in crayon,
The birds
Penciled in,
Fetches solitude.
In a city field
A star
Made of metal
About two frisbees long
Stuck in the ground.
What an interesting industrial
Scrap.
He lifted it up.
It took some effort
But he managed to free it from the earth.
Turns out the star
Was hallow.
In the ground the star shape.
Held in the air the hallow star.
He called the relationship
Of the two
The birth of stars.
One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.
Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.
Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.
Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.
And there are holiday lights around black holes!
And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.
Are finished with what they have to say.
All the weight is in death’s hands
Under an asparagus moon
If life being little more than
The color of grilled cheese above the sea
To somehow out last
The traffic lights of giraffes
In our pockets
The unsettled
For a nest
A short line
Followed by a longer line
Add fire over
Water
Take seriously
The lack of meaning
And give it hope
Finally
Distance is in the kitchen
Washing the dishes
You are drying them
If the canopy of sky
Is too small for your skull
Try a list of hammers
Numbered by the throes
Moon dog starry on a rust belt road
As sophisticated as the rain
This simple commotion
Ample in regards to brevity
Staggers like lightning
Down its short fuse
Quickly but I remember
The walking part of the soul
And the distance it must succeed
The City Limits
A. R. Ammons – 1926-2001
When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider
that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest
swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue
bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider
that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the
leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.
The last of the moon’s scribbled light
In the bowl
naïve haircuts 