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.
We have not fully considered the state of falling. For example,
It matters we are hurtling through space. Possibly, on the eve of everything.
And how the dandelion grows and the how the rooftops chatter
In the rain.
And you fall for this. And I fall for this. Like a finger-painted symphony, blue as a sonnet,
In green socks and cutoff shorts and it’s summer. It’s not so bad to fall.
A blue jay
Swirls
A galaxy
Guesses
Likewise
Said the same
The weather
Hypothesizes
The dusk over this city
Is bicycle-blue
Like telepathy
In the wind
And worth running
Away with
And Our Lady of Scrap Paper
Playing the guitar for the dappled pigeons.
The 5 cent poems the clerk at the laundry sells
When not making up her own postage stamps
To give away to whales.
A wind lost before speaking or the metaphysics of standing on one leg
Choreographing a weathervane.
Clouds think in hieroglyphics and pull calligraphy
Out or their bellybuttons. So go
The yesterdays of the future.
The last of the morning fog on the pane.
The full-spooled
Moon for a handkerchief. A sweater with feral seams.
A bicycle that is in love with the sea.
Boxcar sounds in the distance.
A feeling of general unease
Beautiful as ditch flowers and
Make believe tattoos.
The feeling of turning a corner
That never goes away.
And there is nothing else to
Eat, only the flowers born from volcanoes.
A forest took
Shape around your heart and set it adrift in the cloud-work,
Shored along by time and all that chance
And fate and even where beauty lacks order, it fumbles gold.
Now that the orchard is migrating towards the moon.
By whatever pieces necessary we will puzzle.
For sidewalk tramps baptized in the changing of the leaves,
Hurled to other dimensions by the rustle of the seasons, and
For what poetry could be, words adjacent to meaning squished together by music,
And the lemonade of time travel.
naïve haircuts 