.
.
almost
the economy booms
and the shrapnel’s
made of lies
truths untold
litter fields
of reminiscence
the opposition
lining up
along one side
preparing for
a battle
no one wins
and poppies
line the forest
strewn with pride
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
asked and answered
in the middle of the afternoon
a long walk through urban forest
trees replaced with towering glass
jostling heads on unfurled shoulders
cement and asphalt impersonating
soil
heat pounding
heart pounding
noise rounding
corners
life
bleating
everywhere
unseen
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
the world turns
and i watch the sun
rising patiently
again
patting cheeks
and shoulders
there, there
the grass is green again
(on this side)
color replacing grey
with no qualm
whatsoever
there, there
and the gang of cardinals
splits off into pairs
hoarding territory
and black oil
seed
it’s all political
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
you kept saying
my name and i kept breaking ancient dishes and the road rose up to meet silence after all those years of pontificated blessings. it wasn’t an ending and we were never careful and we met again just left of someone’s center. a poplar whispered overhead, louder than reconciliation. you touched my arm as a question.
beneath the tall pine
six feet from feast and fallow
the sound of breaking
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
compost
last night
in the grocery store
i thought i saw you
no, i
did
see you
for one brief second
that stretched to
infinity
as i turned
and stared and
almost
reached out
to touch your shoulder
say your name
all the while
reminding myself
that ghosts
never shop
for frozen peas
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
something to be said
for the way moonlight and subterfuge
carry on in dark corners
building secrets and sanity
from promise and pause
.
white lace curtain call
for dancing midnight siren
bell-lipped enchantress
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
redemption
there’s a scar on the sky
and dawn gasps for air
the tree is broken
a bee hovers
bits of lace and ribbon
drift slowly back to rest
on a raspberry horizon
gilded decoration
for a dancing
thieving
crow
.
. . . . .
.
.
.
wisdom
never comes the way you think it will, never through planned lessons, marked milestones, expected losses. it slaps you in the face in the guise of moon at midnight, vines itself round your ankle in the garden at dawn, stabs you in the heart at noon and rips away forever. silence is the absence of sound, and i haven’t heard the robins in such a long time.
the trees are tracing pattern
on a fake pearl grey of sky
and i am racing forward
.
. . . . .
.
