Something gathers up the guesses,

Stalks the wild throes and strange fits,

Arrives at probability

We pass as answers.

There is the bumble

In the be all of our lives,

The sorrow and the silence of our

Hearts when they are lightest,

And worst and nothing more,

The crumpled sunlight

Passing for debris,

The rubble of stars,

My bare feet.

Tingling with space,

Corralling chance.

Everywhere this is the cosmos,

Reckless frames and still art.

~

A rhombus of laundromat poems

In the help wanted section.

Like a scarf around a lamppost.

The stones near the sea are still.

But I imagine the birds on the moon

Are a ruckus.

If I was to reach out to you
It would be with a few indifferent words
Arranged to bear little weight.

I would include the gallop of stars,
The sparrows of feral nights,
Contagious cognition.

But that’s all.

*An old poem I thought I would give another chance.

I walked all day. Hoping it would rub off.

I don’t know
Why.

The wind through the budding trees, like the sound of an escalator
On mute. If not for uncertainty, what hope would there be in masks?

Celestial sidewalks. My house number is prime.

On further review, the call on the field stands.

Uneven sidewalks
Make the best puddles.

A pair of lo-fi shears.

The pouring out of self

Into construction paper poems.

~

Eloquent
Like fog
In a dream,

How
The night whispers
Its trespasses, its sanity.

There is a style
To a misspelled word,
A crater.

Albeit the silence
Came with fries.

The sun is a wooden
Sea overrun by
The shadows of birds.

Nevertheless, who will
Find for us

The primitive words
For arriving stars?

~

Just as you are ready
To settle in,

Take away
The floor.

The words you don’t know anymore

Are poetry.

(Another old poem revised.)

I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.

It was a no-nonsense game
Without intermissions.

I headed west
To the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder.

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the sense
Of infinity.

If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.

It is a reluctant light,
The hardware of the self.

This is an old poem I hopefully cleaned up a bit, and decided to give another try.

I would have to add a few lines. And dedicate years to being aimless. But over time

I would become familiar with the ill-fitted dusk on the city. My heart fills with the misplaced.

It does seem unlikely
I will put a handle on this.

Indefinite wonderful.