Along the roads
Even in ditches the goldenrod triumphs.

At night dragonflies
Carry dream cargo.

Without pen and paper
Throughout these lost cities
The grasshopper sings with its legs.  

Any day now, they’ll announce
There is other life in the galaxy.

A telescope and daisies and weather reports 
And subtitles and because beauty,

And all that you have lost and gained,
You find in everything that part of all of us,

And birds, twigs and space shuttles, trampolines
And bubble wrap, groundwater and dandelion shoots, 

And coming home late with the dusk
Still pressed into on your shoulders.

It’s the chatter at the edge of the day,
Tracing its thoughts
Till it forgets its sense in an afternoon field 
Lying there, scrimmaging dreams, 

And the coneflower on its stalk
Mirrors the void, and the grasshopper
Like a highway with a half-moon 
As antenna. 

Like a nova spinning, probability
Whistling,

Restless like an arthropod, cosmic as a daisy, 

I like to walk and take in the world around 
Me.

The velocity of a poem-asteroid
Is elliptical alliteration.

In earnest, realizing this is a dream, which side of the moon
Is homework?

Puddles have telekinetic reflections
And connect us to other dimensions.

Furthermore, the séance of computation
Is poetry.

There is a fire always in the heart,
As bold as apple blossoms 
Free of all poetry. 

Like a gold toothed traipse artist
With tattoos of all the gas giants
And a haircut that reminds one of a snowdrift.

I followed the cosmonaut to the dead end
Where the milkweed and tickseed and goldenrod
Grow and chase dragonflies.

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.