Most of the universe is invisible
And sufficiently implausible.

Which makes it all the more real.

A handprint in a cave,
A neutron star,
A scar from a fistfight
When you were a kid.

Even now, in November,
Half of the leaves are gone
And it is raining.

To each fathom of being migrates
A becoming, till readiness shores,
Structure bursts without burning,

Now wobbly and starry
With outstretched letting go
Into the evening trees, and of this dusk
Torches and butterflies.

~

Have you found
How it will be measured
By raindrops in spring trees?

That there is no volume
Other than space and time?

Do you ask what can be made of the heart
That is simple and brave?

The dimensions of the universe
That do not know fear or love?

Who drank the last

Of the halos? Deliberately made it rain?

Stole old purses from graffiti

Elbows?

Who lit fire to the last of the rocks?

Knowing very well that this storm

Is bare feet, verses, earth.

Like fireflies

Opening doors.

The spring wind

Counting knives.

I adhere to berry and branch,

Leaf, sunlight in the arteries,

Theater wire and the stars.

 

(old poem I thought I would give another chance)

Velocity is a color, said time. A bicycle like a deck of cards fallen into a car wash. The herds of disappearing cities.

A closing door, what color is that for time? I will remember nothing. I will remember everything. I will do both and neither. Just in case.

Forever, like lost love,
Is making ridiculous faces
On the radio.

Forever, said time, is perpendicular to fleeting, like the first snow surrounding the streetlights, how the sun steeped in yellow-burgundy presses in on time and space.

How is that for fleeting?

The moon is an attic
In a house of asteroids

As if the moon chased
Opening doors.

The crown for the dandelion is fields long
And bound to everything.

A poem that steadies on a yawning angel.

To the void, we are as empty as the void is to us.
A bird inside an angel.

A bird out of time and a dusk
Otherworldly.

The doodle: what is the significance
Of its clumsy lines, fettered by chance?

This is not jest
Scribbled the fool.

Crooked
More or less
Is everything.

Look out the window.
How beautiful.

The first frost
In last year’s potholes.

Should it have feathers and gain
Alongside a dogged
Sunrise, should it holler out, grate
The beloved subtleties of first light,
Should it go to how dusk
Leans in with a graffiti shoulder,
Purposely, as if rattled
By poetic symptoms?

Alone, and in the fields, stands attention,
For a moment, a home of such wonder, it is frightening.

The strain all afternoon whipping up ghosts, concerning itself,
As I am walking, if I will go on just because
I’ve yet to go this way.

The night sky prefers Euclidean simplicity,
Trestles of endless rust-colored dusk, and the savage good looking stars.

As for beginnings, as for setting out, what is there to speak of?
That frost knows more about fractals then I do,
Echoes are nests for sound?

I think we are all philosophers, and poor ones at that.
I think we are all arm wrestlers and tobogganists and of the future.

Always the strain late into the afternoon, as the moon wiggles out of itself, and is the first to
Thrust its hands into the sea.

When you were a kid and jumped off a garage roof.

Like thunder without handlebars.
Or the frayed seams of a school yard baseball.

In the uncertain terms of kite strings.
And a gravel road for theology.

How quiet quits the spindle, peels back the print.

Undone by becoming. Traversed by being.
Tipped over. In the end.

Into something so subtlety, and invisibly, forever.