My old enemy,
Grown his thick bushy red beard
In the five years since.

☯

String of white tinsel,
Strung between two thin branches
Bowing to the breeze

☯

Her naked bottom
Visible in a white flash
Gone to thunder now.

☯

Electric fan blast
Cave-cold in my left armpit
DVD skipping.

☯

I watch the traffic
Or, did, until tall condos
Replaced the yoga barn

☯

How strange, to have come
this far only to end as
three lines on smooth stone

☯

Spicy paperback
Askew on dusty floorboards,
Good parts long torn out

☯

Limbless beauty, wins
the pageant and tiara
orange rose in her hair.

☯

One old man, one chair
Crackers thrown to five fleet crows,
Down from the streetlamp.

☯

Icy breeze floats, through
the stilled fan in the window,
down to brown whiskers

☯

My mouth, tensed or slack,
Shaping the breezes through me
Larger or smaller

☯

A tiny white feather
From no nearby bird, blown in
through a bus window

☯

Street maestro, wheedling
Can’t-lose dope deal, easy cash,
A 5 for 40?

☯

My bladder is full,
My ears suffused with Lester,
Teeth, clenched; soul, somewhere…

☯

Rail track, opposite,
As immobile on its side
As I am on mine.

☯

Cinnamon-swirl sky,
cloud-grey spiraled inside blue,
Lights on in the tower

☯

Telephone pole tar, melting
down at the base, sticky bright
like the back of my neck.

☯

Silhouette, stalking
downwind from dozing sentry
hands clutching cabbage.

☯

Outrage at the world
Swallowed, finally, thinking:
Don’t waste a good walk.

☯

“Some days are diamonds,
some days are stones”–and I stole
this from the busman.

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