The sky is orange and sad and the leaves are blue.
What’s a comet to do? On one strange leg, wearing
A tiara of ice.
A vagabond sweater left on the lonesome train.
In the rain, the faux pearls feel at home.
Remember the espionage of daisies
And the rattling of apple blossoms,
The paragraphs of dandelions
And the heretic crocuses. All of them, like the peaks
Of mountains in a bleak novel.
The surface of the moon is conscious.
I open the window to let in the smell of the cold rain.
The room is dark, the streetlights are discussing Moby Dick.
surrealism
When We are Gone
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)
Correspondence
It all boils down to how the universe stores information. For example: the surface area of a poem, like the chewing gum that comes with trading cards, it is a half-moon. The potholes meditate. Pink dusk.
The Earth is somewhat squished, pinched in orbit by our star. I walk to the window. Suddenly, rain. I read the letter. It said: The barometer of missing socks. Always where we haven’t been, and where we will never be again.
I walk to the door. It thunders. Just afterwards, listen closely. To the reverberations. The rain on the pane.
My reply.
naïve haircuts 