The moon fills these shoes, spells a simple long look
Over the city, like the poetry of a monocular.

The moon is a forgery and covered in brambles,
But cede it will not to anything but pulse and breath.

An ambush of silliness, a clothesline transcending laundry
From which I hang a self of wobbled walks and bits of rainy wind.

The weather is utterly cosmic,
I prance alone in a towel in the cosmos of spring,
Under the summer sky, without anywhere else good to be.

Can one breathe in the difference between stillness
And silence,

Or smell the curve of the stars or the anatomy
Of a light rain,

The absurd lack of cardinality in the void, how does
That feel?

Something simmers when seeing a major cloud in the
Outline of a minor chord,

Remember to turn off your light before bed
With a wish,

And give to the atmosphere all it would give in
Return.

We have not fully considered the state of falling. For example,
It matters we are hurtling through space. Possibly, on the eve of everything.
And how the dandelion grows and the how the rooftops chatter
In the rain.
And you fall for this. And I fall for this. Like a finger-painted symphony, blue as a sonnet,
In green socks and cutoff shorts and it’s summer. It’s not so bad to fall.

A blue jay
Swirls

A galaxy 
Guesses

Likewise
Said the same

The weather 
Hypothesizes

The dusk over this city 
Is bicycle-blue

Like telepathy
In the wind 

And worth running 
Away with

And Our Lady of Scrap Paper
Playing the guitar for the dappled pigeons.

The 5 cent poems the clerk at the laundry sells
When not making up her own postage stamps
To give away to whales.

A wind lost before speaking or the metaphysics of standing on one leg
Choreographing a weathervane.

Clouds think in hieroglyphics and pull calligraphy
Out or their bellybuttons. So go
The yesterdays of the future.

A forest took 
Shape around your heart and set it adrift in the cloud-work,

Shored along by time and all that chance 
And fate and even where beauty lacks order, it fumbles gold.

Now that the orchard is migrating towards the moon.
By whatever pieces necessary we will puzzle.    

A summer
Song sans sense, in electric red,
On air guitar. 

And the blue afternoon
For pocket change, a terse notebook
Jotted down in a shirt pocket
To keep poems. 

But whatever it is, even the typography
Of space travel,
And if you can, do not
Hold it at arm’s length.

You took to the railroad lines like a fiddler to a roof.
And the hours out walking, an aficionado of being
For the wind and for the horizon and for the fields.
You took home the sweat of summer,
And into the night, the dimpled ribbon of the moon
Unravels along an airy topography. You are enlivened
By the malady of wing and antenna as the butterfly
Tops the ironweed. Like the evening dusk piled on the blue sky,
And above that, the night without any currency
Of its own giving away everything.

We should begin with
The moon, have your cat draw
The circle and its glow and its marred
Demeanor. Why don’t we stop
For some tea and enrich ourselves
On the rain-smell of the coming storm?
When the cat has finished,
And the moon is just right, and over the rooftops,
We will draw up evacuation plans
But they will all be forgeries
Splendidly like puddles or these
Journal entries. Truth be told,
The cosmos is a drum roll not unlike the smell
Of lilac,
The cosmos is also a strummed guitar the color
Of a lonesome whistle.
We should finish our evening by returning to
The moon, where we left it, have your car draw
It being swallowed by our sun
Now a red giant.