in the corner
where the buildings meet
is where the wind dives in
to swarm
and spiral in
a reel.
you only know that
because the tattered
blue plastic
jumps and skates
to the left
and the crumpled
kraft paper skitters away
to the right,
both fettered by an unpredictable swirl.
the one perfect thing
is the tumbleweed branch
pushed along
by this dervish
and goaded into rolling away.
In an extrusion
a mist of poems
read to the pink dusk
of September
-a pearlescent haze suspended-
before some fell like blooms
from a Rose of Sharon
– left to wane and decay with the days to bronze-
And some,
blossomed in full,
agape and yawning with nectar’s tumescence,
curled tightly in a twist,
a final coalescence suspended
there and left in her mind,
deliquescent.
When I left
my thoughts in the days
after
death,
as tic marks arose
like the blades of grass
-too numerous to count
and for their random stacking
could have buried
my understanding the
true
meaning of
resurrection-
beyond
reanimation of blood and
bone.
it is reinvention
of joy,
in the covered fields
that can be walked upon,
the horizons remote and straddling,
the light and dark places
that replace the terminus.
the tactile feel
when I drink
from a
red plastic cup
with vertical ridges-
waves that undulate at
my tracing fingertips.
and after a time-
combined with the condensate
colluded from
hot and cold-
I wipe clean the surface
and clasp my hands
tightly –
as if to shutter
the memory.
In a twildly dusk, I see
a flaxum and her mimbles, we
open talk and loydal sing
with sunbeam-laden mulbering.
The verse rafeals a higher cause,
and willently, we sing then pause,
our fragenotions echo there
as we chorus contricare.
As just as then, we breathed and stopped,
fixembled, stable, clembed and swapped
A song sincerely wooed, then freed
and flaxum/poet now agreed.
Then in mirist silence found,
tracing back with embered sound
songs at dusk- the most revered
The ferrel-maried moon appeared
and strummed the night to denser aires
with open chords and fortunes fair.
I’m having trouble
speaking the words of a poem –
with its slashing across lines-
led like the maestro, using a baton,
to encourage the violins
as they tear through the motif
of heroic melodies
it should resolve into
adagio songs-
except for the divertimento
in my head.
It is in the sounds
the leaves make when the breeze blows,
or in the solo song
of the catbird, after the wind dies.
There is a beginning, middle, and end-
to declare origin,
divine their pivot-
The end is always the absolute.
Recalling what came before-
She takes photographs-
framed with a delicate touch between
her thumb and forefinger
to record a point.
a reference to the during
where her moment breathes.
a yellow bird
recently flown from
a cage,
stopped at the end of the hall
to peck at the mirror,
looking for a friend
instead
finding a rival
at every move.
There
are
an assortment of sizes
colors and shapes of
colored glass that sit
on the table and catch
the morning sun.
my silhouette
blocks the glint
in the big red bottle
as an eclipse-
unfettered by orbital
motion.
The lights illuminated,
then passed her
on the serpentine highway,
as she kneeled in prayer;
people in their
own cars looking
at the road
and ignoring the eglantine
bush in bloom.
The poet, from his slant,
saw her lament
-the context in thorns-
and captured her tears,
knowing
she would never
read his words.
Taps and Ratamacues 