An existential nap said the philosopher. 
Now to open the windows said the pupa. 

Difference is time said the button to the loop.
Said the city alley to the constellations, like siblings.

A concoction of wit and frivolity
Cooks up its own stature of poetry. 

The moon is a forgery, a reflection of the past.
As it is a breathing monument to the present. 

The dirt road, strictly in the metaphysical sense, 
Said the horizon, said the dragonfly.  

The arrangement of chaos is, of course, 
As little arrangement as possible. 

And, of course, it matters how summer transgresses
In its unremitting largess.

As tall as the looking out across 
The field fiddled with red dusk.

As bounteous and wealthy as the rolling stone.
An hour sitting quietly at the riverside.

Of course, of course, a turning over of all we found.
Even silence sometimes loses its footing

Into a feeling that tingles with vastness
And the net gain of walking in the rain.

Temporary lodging
Is found in
Lilacs in May, the solar system.

Ad lib lodging
Is found in
The poem, creation.

One could house 
With the fiction of a violin,
Or on the slope of the sleeping giant.

At the heart of the universe
The very catastrophe 
Of its beginning.    

Observed and Unobserved 

Someone graffitied
The interference pattern from the double slit 
Experiment on the brick wall behind the bus
Stop. Where would we be without earthworms?


Making it Work

What it lacked in finesse
It made up for in repairs

And though now it slants
“Only slightly” to the side 

A rollicking wonderment
Tumbled into form

Like the misshapen poem
Whose aim is true  

The number of rainy days
When marked on the calendar 
Resembles a fingerprint
Roofed against the world.

These rainy days I am 
Glad of the Criterion
Channel, an afternoon coffee, the poetry
Of Fernando Pessoa.
His poems as large as the solar system.

I’m taking up postcarding, 
Though I’m not going anywhere, 
I’m making them myself, 
Just to send messages to 
My friends.

On Tuesday 
I went to the florist
And asked for a sandwich
And enjoyed a fanzine
On dual star systems
Because the drive-in
Is popular 


The renegade robin
Steals powerlines
Eats electricity on toast


Somehow this all fits like a rain puddle
Early in spring
Like a wingspan
Like daisies and isosceles


At home without nomenclature 
With fins like the cinema
And the gospel of being outside

Free Spirit:

Inwardness has distance, too.
And where the spirit turns outward

There is a rolling stone to mark
Its place.


This Can Be Confirmed:

Last night’s dream coughed up
Cliffs and reaffirmed the existence
Of bottomless pits, yet

You become a bird in the air,
The jumping and dancing
Inherent in the stars.


Variables:

It is those who gather lots of room
For lots of meanings

Reeling with all kinds of realities
And who make the most of it 

Silhouettes are jigsaw pieces  
To one big, puzzling dream

The irony of turtles
Is jellyfish prose

Like a filibustering moon 
Roundabouting a dream

In the driveway the cat 
Asleep next to the oil splotch  

An alliteration of reptiles
Sings Rocketman

Poetry toasts
The aria of balloons

In the hourglass
Too is infinity 

Because eternity has paws
And a wishing well for a creed 

The shark cedes to the tulip
All of its armor.