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

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.

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.

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?

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.