seventeen yellow nubs
pressing upward into air
into an inhalation of lovers
plucking at afternoon;
soft blue
resting, open petals
on breeze
on sunlight;
rhythm of sideways wind
nodding to offbeat clouds
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Over the rim
The glare from the rim of my glasses
makes me see things that aren’t there,
often frightening shadows
or cartoon villains lurking about.
Hello, boa. Greetings, Snidely.
I hold on to daydreams, though
it’s not the safest habit for my psyche,
what with false warmth
and promises that will never bloom.
I read and read and read, hoping
to find a fragment of the divine
amongst flawed humanity.
I prefer modern poetry, mystery, and
19th century British explorer biographies.
Notes in the margins of “Paterson”
make me think there’s someone
out there who doesn’t believe in fairies.
Every time someone writes, there’s a trail
of comet dust that tastes of childhood.
I lap it up and sparkle from the inside.
Oh! The roll of macadam in summer
The rise tasted of sweat
and grass and exhaust.
We floated through city streets
exhaling on the downslopes.
Wherever we went,
we were already gone.
aching at the stoplight
there’s little mystery
except in everything
(looking closely, of course)
like: I know the curve of his face
and the tune of summer night’s birdsong
but I can’t explain
why some waves turn right away
while others flatten like lizards under sun;
mostly I want to understand
where people go in their heads
and can I sometimes go there too?
Bearing down
Give me something true,
not like romance or fire in space
but the best explosion
(virtually silent),
bearing down on a stick
of dynamite,
knowing it’s our end.
