The petals of sitting

Alone on a ledge of a

Wall. The city here is

Industrial, abandoned.

I like the wild flowers

And the shrubs. I like

The graffiti. When the

Sun sets on the abandoned automobile

Mouths, on the rail road

Ties. I think of a daring childhood.

Blood brothers with surrealism.

Or the raw patterns of

Broken panes.

The stars and planets sitting on time

Making dents in space.

How armies of sky

Take one leaf at a time

And rattle them green bones,

Shattering the air

Of its clear perpendiculars.

I am ready

For the perfect legs I don’t remember

The silence of swim suits in the branches of stars

For the shaman to burn my habits and pull the cosmos out of a sock

The sleeveless sun like an alphabet flying a kite

If I should
Head home
By now.

Back
To the
Strange

Shoelaces
Of angles.

But that’s how you remember

Black holes are timeless.

And
It is in life
You find the words
For words you don’t
Know.

Evolution manages imagination.

To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders
And elbows.

The poem can be

Black as a match head.
Vigilante as applesauce.

A wink in the thunder.
A thud on the daisies.

An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons.

Wish me luck.