a slight wind -- the paradoxical coolness
that resonates like bells through the mist
of late spring. moths congregate and pile
against the window, which pours light --
like rapids --
into the mountain evening. a toad --
the cousin of a rock -- sits on the pavement
and watches the dandelions, drier than a
catholic, shriveling. you went outside and
with a gentle voice, and a touch also gentle,
picked it up. it closed its eyes; you took it
to a puddle, and sat it down, then you left,
then it left, hopping into the coniferous
the sun (plus all the particles
that make up its purple ghost) rests
over the winter-weary streets
and, seeing all the people walking
with their heads down, recoils
the building (with the glass
all over, exposing tired office
jockeys), even as it looms, shows
sympathy to the mourning cosmos.
there is no sun chicago
there is no glimmer in DC
the lights are out. the grey
days are here.
even in the cold, the boiler
rumbles. the grass
beneath your shoe.
children of march warmth -- the
dust hovers over the parking lot
a winter ghost. faded coca cola logo
affixed to the concrete slab of a building.
french fries are expensive
all the patrons are old men
the lanes are smooth
a lonely party balloon hovers by a scoreboard
the shoes are too tight
rubber duck claw machine
diet coke can
with the wind
that's the tree's whisper.
the mirror you stand in is a reflection of
a river you stand in, a reflection of a
stone that in the heat of the day
is warm by the coming of sunset
earth's last wrinkling seed is decaying, and superseding it
are the ophanim-head many-winged nightcrawlers who weep
gamma rays and pray, behind their stargazing eyes,
to remember the home they remembered several lives ago
oh sonar, oh radar, oh radiophonic monarchy
please boost your signal so our kin can hear
our pleas for a tomorrow that we begged for yesterday
and let us wade in that river. amen.
all the city’s a womb, a constant buzz,
a dim blue night that a river bisects.
around the window
at the faint traces of the sun
left in the sky’s retina.
midnight is just a suggestion
that lingers in the back
of your filament brain. the
wordless candle, its aura. ask
the dawn for a kiss.
is your doom. the night’s black
when the sun has regained some
confidence, its reach on the land
reestablished, its lucid eye alert,
you hide from its gaze. you cower
from the great daisy in the recesses
of inverted sleep; 6 in the morning
to 3 in the afternoon. rising out
of your slumber is like
challenging a rip tide,
only to find
the shore exposes
your naked body.