Let your brain be the dust
Of yellow laughter

Like the meandering
Tattoos of the moon
Vanishing
Into shuffled cards
Into asteroid belts 

 There is an oblivion 
 Just next door
 Recently relocated.
  
 Here one visits 
 If one is willing,
 A returning
 From the future
  
 That’s been with you
 Before you were born. 
 A pumpernickel dawn
 Of abandoned hospitals.
  
 But some fool
 Cut off the wings.
 And misplaced 
 The spelling bee. 
  
 So, you hold up 
 The rainy bicycle
 With the perfume 
 Of your arms, and
  
 Into this pinch of creation,
 And pinched by creation,
  
 Till your knuckles have as 
 Many stars as a galaxy. 
  
 Laughter is a tree truck
 Without a ride home. 

 A certain carelessness 
 In a perfect circle
  
 It is too ripe and crude
 A coarse bird
 That fits in too well with the broken shore
  
 Unlike the polluting smoke of industry
 As it catches the closing beams of the sun
  
 A rosette triumph
 A too perfect charade  

 The sad of it
 Is lonesome sky
 The heart on a hill
 Frost on a barbed wire fence
  
 Where to begin to repair
 The midlife heart
 In what room to begin to laugh
  
 And when to say 
 This has passed
 And it will be one with us
  
 What hole is deep enough
 To make permanent the moonlight
  
 And if the stars 
 Come looking for alms 
 I will remind them
 I have only the sense
 Of infinity
 For purse strings  

 God jumps in first with a belly flop.
 But everything God does is beautiful, and this starts all of creation.
  
 Just don’t tell this to the Abyss.
 Not that you can. Be certain of this. You can’t. 
  
 Next the swimmers, tattoos of birds on their bodies, in search of fish,
 Along the roads in the air of October the first frost between their teeth,
  
 As the sky unfurls into handfuls of dusk. 
  
 At night, the moon is the butterfly on the city stoop,
 Crayon crossed out by crayon.
  
 The wind is the blueprint, said the parachute.
 And the Earth is our wind. The sunlight is both even and odd. 
  
 I purchase sheet music, and some boxes,    
 Because my head is cluttered
  
 With the snow 
 Falling into the street lamps,
  
 With unsighted poems and handfuls of dusk.
  
 What else can I do?
  
 In this city, and this poem like a periscope. And
 When beauty hurts, when it is ugly, ferociously so, and it will be, 
  
 Try a belly flop in the neighborhood pool. 
 Mouthing your every adieu to the Abyss.  

The vagrant blue in the November fields. I have that. At least I have
That. The lost arms of flowers, though nothing weeps. And the only
Color is the gray electrical structures and the graffiti. 

There is dire in the blue, directly in this wandering. I will work out the
Equations later. 

At this rate, by the end of the year, the moon will have enough to buy 
A helicopter. And have that ankle looked at. 

Part of it is the dust from stars. Part of it rolls in the ground, 
Like a season. 

This is the part how each leaf before it catches hold 
Of the earth

Says hello.

A sandwich guy.

Tee shirt
And pants.

Library card,
Notebook poems.

I flunked calligraphy, and sometimes I think red means go.
They took away my license

To fish.
And if someone asks what poetry is

It’s in the wrist, and every dial in your brain
Is screaming.

Death is a shaking off of light, to rid itself of stars and mirrors, to rid itself of satiety.

Light stands in the dirt, and making circles with its hands.

Death is the number of circles in the apple blossom tree.