How often you say, we just met.
Or how you pass the salt, because
The cosmos is everything other
Than what isn’t there.
If not that as well.
Your voice, the tone is bare,
Unbuttoned.
If you include
The dusk at the end of the road.
We eventually
Become as tiny as galaxies.
How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.
June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.
The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.
A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.
Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?
(Another old poem)
The green stalks, the tails of comets,
This is what grows.
The banter of universes, the eons in the spring flowers,
This is what fails.
Something gathers up the guesses,
Stalks the wild throes and strange fits,
Arrives at probability
We pass as answers.
There is the bumble
In the be all of our lives,
The sorrow and the silence of our
Hearts when they are lightest,
And worst and nothing more,
The crumpled sunlight
Passing for debris,
The rubble of stars,
My bare feet.
Machine Washable-
A button-colored shirt.
~
Attics for Brains-
The ghost stirs
Like cold soup
On an abandoned stair.
~
Waking Up-
I just heard it. The train whistle.
Coming in from Canada
Like space invader calligraphy.
But I cannot say it. The new birds in the air.
And suffers from equations.
Concerning the axis of time.
Or how much coffee to have this morning.
There it is again. This time further away.
~
Diorama-
The old house.
The latch.
The screen door on its hinges
In the wind.
In the wind
The inflatable stars.
In the plastic sky.
A rebellion of
Rockets
Pinned
To the cardboard
Cosmos.
~
Stop Here-
I think the dandelions were in on it.
The joke,
Said the moon.
Tingling with space,
Corralling chance.
Everywhere this is the cosmos,
Reckless frames and still art.
~
A rhombus of laundromat poems
In the help wanted section.
Like a scarf around a lamppost.
The stones near the sea are still.
But I imagine the birds on the moon
Are a ruckus.
If I was to reach out to you
It would be with a few indifferent words
Arranged to bear little weight.
I would include the gallop of stars,
The sparrows of feral nights,
Contagious cognition.
But that’s all.
*An old poem I thought I would give another chance.
I walked all day. Hoping it would rub off.
I don’t know
Why.
The wind through the budding trees, like the sound of an escalator
On mute. If not for uncertainty, what hope would there be in masks?
Celestial sidewalks. My house number is prime.
On further review, the call on the field stands.
Uneven sidewalks
Make the best puddles.
A pair of lo-fi shears.
The pouring out of self
Into construction paper poems.
~
Eloquent
Like fog
In a dream,
How
The night whispers
Its trespasses, its sanity.
There is a style
To a misspelled word,
A crater.
Albeit the silence
Came with fries.
The sun is a wooden
Sea overrun by
The shadows of birds.
Nevertheless, who will
Find for us
The primitive words
For arriving stars?
~
Just as you are ready
To settle in,
Take away
The floor.
The words you don’t know anymore
Are poetry.
(Another old poem revised.)
naïve haircuts 