Dents We Call Life

The petals of sitting

Alone on a ledge of a

Wall. The city here is

Industrial, abandoned.

I like the wild flowers

And the shrubs. I like

The graffiti. When the

Sun sets on the abandoned automobile

Mouths, on the rail road

Ties. I think of a daring childhood.

Blood brothers with surrealism.

Or the raw patterns of

Broken panes.

The stars and planets sitting on time

Making dents in space.

How armies of sky

Take one leaf at a time

And rattle them green bones,

Shattering the air

Of its clear perpendiculars.

Just Any Poem

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.

Wish me luck.

City Walk

I write of my city walks
The sandwiches I eat

I write of the solitude
And the presence

I think you will laugh
I think your elbows are distant clouds

I walk the rail road lines
I say nothing for days

I plot my take
On the world
In rain puddles

With a November
Leaf
As chief science officer

Love’s Lost Shoes

My tee shirt jumped out the window.

The sunset bellowed like a turning leaf.

Thunder did not wait to ring the doorbell.

This may seem but abandonment, and it is,

But what’s more, it is a new pocket

And the whispery laces of love’s lost shoes,

The derangement made tidy by

The universe, shadows in doorways, April’s

Chill roads and rainy fingers, the blistery rings.

You can hear quiet became aware

Of the silence arriving.

It is a fact that Saturn is a planet.

And to live is to with one

Heart bear the weight of sorrow and summer mornings.

The moon is not insured,

It has always been that way.