Every flower in every abandoned city lot

Is part of eternity

In the reckless port of truth

With the rest of us. 

Both perpendicular and parallel 

And why not add paradox

Whose argument centers everywhere.

A poem causes data to quit.

Ambivalence is consciousness.

A green moon, said the June bees. And August
For a soul, agreed September. The obituary read,
It rained all day the first day of summer.

A moth is a solitary word and of the stars. Said July,
This ditty of a cosmos. The obituary read, 
On the longest day of the year we say goodbye. 

Under the long blue sky, we read out loud 
Our futures. And though I have already
Forgotten what was said, October remembers. 
And we hope for those who are gone this is true too.

The poet draws maps for imaginary tourists.

With these words
Underlines the galaxy.

The cosmos 
Is the footing
We stand on.

The leg-work of the eons.

The universe
Is a wave.

The wind measures the shore. 

Unknowing for a mustache. The universe strolls.

My feet

Are pirates.
My arms

Are pilots. 

My head

Is a checkout line
For daffodils. 

My lungs 

Are fine pastries

Of blue sky.
Me walking 

Like a song

Along the railroad 

Lines. 
My hands

Are roller rinks

Of sunsets. 

How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?

What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?  

Birds make up my hands

My hands are invisible

But not the birds

They have kept their feathers

They have kept their language

But stopped using words

Words are all I have

Now that the birds are gone

Visible only as the outlines of wings

The air-thin bones of sky

The sea-soaked philosophers know that logic is a wave function.
And that function, whether a wave or a dream, is as outrageously
Real as the rest of us. 

The desert-dry stars are aluminum fairy tales in pop-can verse.
The happenings of what happened are now charged with memories.
And both memories and gravity pull you in.

What can be can only be what we are willing to guess
And what we have become to mean. Handwritten somewhere between
The calligraphy of philosophy 
And the probability of a poem.  

The moon is envelope white 
And flat like a pressed flower. Some gas giants are blue against the backdrop 
Of eons. Dandelions are the universe too.

Daisies are hydrogen and carbon. 
A point has no circumference. Meanderers love the horizon. 
Brontosauruses are the universe too. 

The wind buoys the lungs. 
Time’s whereabouts is the end game of metaphysics. How time arrives
And from where is the universe too.   

Poems are pillows for the unsaid.
The emblems of aught.
The surgery
Separating winter and spring.

Poems are handlebars for the abstract.
The tassels windy of hunches.
The wild arteries of life.