To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.

The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.

But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders 
And elbows.

The poem can be
Black as a match head,
Vigilante as applesauce,

A wink in the thunder,
A thud on the daisies,

An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons,

Like an aria
Penniless in the cinema, 

Feral in the garage chewing on the rake. 

Wish me luck.

*This is an older poem, I changed some of the lines and a new title.

Late summer,

Soon the sun turns

Pensive like an elbow,

As faraway 
As a Diplodocus. 

And yet, 

What persistence
Walks as open
As perchance?

I sweep for miles
These unlikely roads.

Of August 
By the window,
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.

And the clever words of the poets
Throw knives at the wall.

And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales
Washed ashore by UFOs. 

Frivolous fails when 
It is nothing at all,

So, give us something, 
If only a broken August, when it
Speaks at all. Darkness up 

On its hind legs welcomes you home.

Of uncertain hands
That hold the earth,
Fold dreams into space.

In the end, 
The poet works in lines,
Not in what they mean.