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)


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.


Cello moon,
For broken piano.

If every raincoat was a time machine,

Apparitions of


An oboe jumping from a plane

Imitating an asteroid.


Explain this to me,
Why daisies have tusks
For a heart, and are ruthless
And yellow.

How the ground is green with loneliness,

Spilling over
With the joy of breathing its own song.

Explain the spring in footsteps,

How in the distance of your heart
You feel your heart
Take pause of the earth.

I hear the sidewalks rustle
In the still trees.

Living tigers for neckties. Under a penniless sky worth its weight in bold.