With the bell not ringing

and the compressors holding sway,

the conversation between acorn 

and sidewalk was very one-sided 

.

A fallen leaf listened, recalling the peace

of last night’s soft rain and a sliver of moon

between clouds that don’t tell time 

.

An old woman with a young girl’s heart 

watched the oaken shrubbery

and for a moment forgot her own 

deportment, her sin, her dusty pockets 

.

The tower held crows, doves, gulls,

and a smattering of leaves 

as philosophy grew between the pavers 

.

Someone somewhere read a poem

about a small town by the sea. 

The face of the new moon

is watching 

over the electric silence 

of a summer night. 

.

The gaps in the view 

out the window 

are merely echoes 

of rivers and butterflies.

.

All fades to silver 

and slows to cricket song

towards the end 

before the long wait til dawn.

A tsunami covers the town 

and nobody notices.

They shuffle from car to work 

and sometimes church. 

I think a thousand thinks by noon

and utter only seven. 

Why are there gulls in the clock tower?

–

Humming a song an octave below,

some amalgam of hums about 

dust, shells, home, rivers, and pockets.

Light bounces off my hair 

and I feel a moment of childhood again,

the sick part and the sweet. 

–

I’m so much better off when I carry a book.

Sidewalk versus nettles versus steps

and it’s all one path. 

You can mourn quietly and laugh loudly 

and it’s the same heartache

for chasing an ever-moving light. 

–

Time chimes through a town 

and old people cackle. 

We catalog things we find 

and it’s mostly numbers and colors. 

We slide from morning to night 

sometimes lingering over lunch

barely taking in the layers of art in a day.

The trick isn’t 

finding 

the right words,

.

it’s letting go 

all the ones 

that don’t matter

.

when everything 

seems equally 

dense.