Spring, mid-afternoon

I turn on the laughter
up & over

Small fireballs warning drivers not to turn

It gets dark later now, hours after the car crashed down the road

The woman who died made many drivers wait in long lines,
participants in a grief of moment

Soft balls of orange flames recycle endlessly, uneaten,
punctuating the mouth of a street

stay away

trying to fall asleep at the hole,

every day the grounds need to get shaven, according to someone;
a tree top wags like a peacock’s tail,
lilac bushes, fluff fingers knocking all day, leaves waving like sashes in wind, why do bees try
so hard to find a way in through screens, stepping, flying against them, the rhythm
is a grid so confusing they need to repeat until a quota of boredom is reached;
over & over
to find something new
in the drift between sun & none.

the recriminations swarm

around sunset

around wind & leaves
clacking in late autumn,
scattering as uncleaved birds
with curled, weightless wings

a calving back & forth along time past, present,
a calving back & forth along time past, present,
& future

landing on this choral gulf,
my rift, shore.

the years

a line in a map drones aloft
just as a plane thunders past

we grid ourselves
or is it gird against

flickers like slivers
coming unhitched

wavering increments of silence,
spaces between bars.

Winter Lining

A plane in the night flies by like a bug.
Everything mirrors something else,
relation bespeaking order, significance.

For now, we go on flowering,
never having been here before.

The vantage of newness & oldness
is an apprehension of largeness
without being crushed.

Soothsayers rise in an assembly
of scripts for the taking,
exchanging cards between nomads
who might as well be reflections
hurling themselves into the unknown
scavenging the rules.

Vacated Premise

scribbles nested with grace,
netted veils,
sprays of tiny black dots ::

on the lookout

home base,

home run,

you must touch whatever home is to score

our moon, a nightly elegy

to punctuating space .