They shot everybody
with just the right light
to show the timeless appeal
of impossibly soft faces,
brows that leapt like jumpropes,
and bras that looked like bullets.
I liked the gloves.
I really liked the shadows.
I didn’t like the facade
of streets that hid their grit
or milkmen who looked like
they never touched a cow.
Who wants a sterile breakfast?

The best part was
when the slick scene was pierced
like a roasted sausage
and out spilled tap-dancing fools…
effervescent.

The point of anything may be “love”
but I suspect it’s not the mushy stuff
of bloody organs or flowers or perfectly
placed words soothing a fevered brow,
but rather the mathematical presentation
of thrust and abandon
that happens in nature
resulting in distinct nonsensical patterns
that we spend our lives
trying to decipher.

A whole galaxy may be squished
into the tuft of a pussy willow
and I’d never know the swaying reeds
were a communication from beyond.

When imagining great things, it’s so often
bridges or battles or cathedrals or
delicate mastery of limbs or rhymes
or it may be a brain larger than a whale’s eye.

I can’t decide how big the holes should be
because I haven’t narrowed down
what I should be capturing.

It’s been hard to hear
the song of grass and trees
over the din of teacups
and traffic and a sky full
of tormented birds.

I was uplifted
when the hawk captured the bunny;
it was equally satisfying
no matter whose side I was on.