In a city field
A star
Made of metal
About two frisbees long
Stuck in the ground.
What an interesting industrial
Scrap.
He lifted it up.
It took some effort
But he managed to free it from the earth.
Turns out the star
Was hallow.
In the ground the star shape.
Held in the air the hallow star.
He called the relationship
Of the two
The birth of stars.
One must put one’s ear to a stone
To hear the axis of Jupiter,
Or a volleyball game in Canada.
Or be on holiday to string
Oh so elaborately
Lights around a black hole.
Even if black holes lack
The ability to look up
And acknowledge such a feat.
Bravo to every dandelion! I agree, it’s spring.
And there are holiday lights around black holes!
And so what if dandelions end up like gray haired stars
At night on the city lawn.
Are finished with what they have to say.
All the weight is in death’s hands
Under an asparagus moon
If life being little more than
The color of grilled cheese above the sea
To somehow out last
The traffic lights of giraffes
In our pockets
The unsettled
For a nest
A short line
Followed by a longer line
Add fire over
Water
Take seriously
The lack of meaning
And give it hope
Finally
Distance is in the kitchen
Washing the dishes
You are drying them
I found my coat
Next to the words
For leaving
I thought for good
Here we are
Spilling gravity
Into the graffiti of
Poetry
Giving chance
Its due
After transcendence you end up standing in the dirt like the rest of us
Time is a red scarf picked up by darkness.
Light is the celebration of that vision.
The way here is through particles of self and to the dust and the sea and that breath.
Distance and the sandwiches.
I forget all my head and I don’t like it where is the weather of himself to wear through the streets and along the train rails.
The broken brick lay in a pile a few yards from what’s left of the industrial structure: the flowers and the plants interceding.
On the rubble mound shoes probably me with them finding the space listening to the nearby fields no sound but in vibrations my self is the song space.
Sidewalk puddles
Of the city, the rumor of birds
On the ears of steel rails.
In spring, the robins are first,
In the yards, in the lots,
Even before the worms.
I write
Little poems
Open to interpretation.
Taxi cabs are wisdom.
So are basketball hoops
Screwed to the garage.
And in our glass lives
The outlines
Of light and the sea.
Foraging for paperclips
On the moon
The clerk alphabetizes
Piano concertos
By tone.
Enumerates the asteroids, some standing like an upright bass.
Makes a note: a foolish nostalgia for the 1980’s is the hobgoblin for neoliberalism.
All the while on stilts with a telescope, the clerk bird watches.
Clouds in the distance like the blushing of elbow smashes.
And so foolish are these ledgers
Chances are
They’re true.
I’m thinking of a hoax
The size of the sun,
But like the size of the wind.
I’m thinking of tenderness
Soaked in starry I-don’t-knows, how
Pretty Emily Dickinson must have been
Staring out her window at
Tarantula stars
naïve haircuts 