We will puzzle you.
By whatever pieces necessary.

Beauty is a ridiculous number.
It could take years of theorizing

And chalkboards to put a finger
On this.

I think I need an alphabet hat
To count the stars, and forgetfulness

To remember them all. A code name,
Because it would be cool. Just saying.

The universe is acuity, all the way down to and including unawareness.
A rolling pin made of daydreams. Unmade of mountain streams.

Most of it you can’t see. Most of it too small or too far away.
The universe is a merry-go-round in a metaphysical sense.
The universe is homespun, like plaster walls or quantum mechanics.

Holds Mercury in its cheeks.
And the red leaves of autumn.

All the roads it has traveled
It has marked with the same
Dust and stone.

Holds Jupiter in the somersaults of daisies.
And almost disinterestedly the exuberant the light on its endless shores
When full.

The color of a stolen coat.
The IQ of an origami
Tesseract.
Obscurity hung by a crag, by its metaphors.
And if the puddles ask, smile.

In this mystery, not even totality 
Covers all the bases.
Paradoxes are natural.

The Nine-O-Clock Song like a spilled spool
Of tread along and over desperate for what’s 
New of the city streets, along the river 

Like a lucky railroad spike you found 
As a kid then into the fields of pussy willow
And milkweed and goldenrod 

The Song of the Moon Crater is a poem
Written by Walt Whitman the astronaut,
As is The Song of the Snowdrift written by David 
“I like sneaking into the drive-in” Thoreau

Just as when we were kids hanging out
On the curb, or just running around, till the dusk up dark ladders
Into night when the streetlights came on

How does one return. Ankles full of the sky. Throat
Clear of clarity.

To ply whatever theories one hopes to shape
And hang them up like coats and call this
Being or consciousness. The pinprick of dreams.

How does one get back to an open heart and 
Feet on the ground full of thoughts and inklings. 
The metaphysics of a canyon and anything that  
Isn’t a canyon. Even the fire hydrant is a vase 
Of ideas. 

And furthermore, September is the last
Green house, soon enough, the dried-up roller skates
Of what’s left of the flowers.