Brown-and-white speckled
pigeon, its feet cut to nubs
Black Friday morning
☯
Fly on bathroom shelf,
whom have you witnessed today
Who stood in stilled tears?
☯
Leafless maple
does it still pass overhead
if I walk eyes down?
☯
That moment before
the walk signal switches green;
a drill on concrete.
☯
American flag
wrapped around itself, flapping;
the red fire engine.
☯
Into the wind runs
that spotted dog, against
finger-thin branches
☯
Does spirit stay here
while the mind and the body
paste up the outside?
☯
Maybe I’m fated
to hear the music always
over our scrabbling.
☯
I wait longer, now,
for the heat to come on
than for the sunrise.
☯
Flowering clover
thins as it struggles sideways
up the power pole
☯
Hall light reflected
along the ceiling: arms, trunk…
the shape of a cross.
☯
I am one fat glob
of folly, folly, folly–
the light on the hill.
☯
That sense, suspicious
that the cold of this winter
shall sit in in situ.
☯
This chill cuts away
every defense I’ve gone and
made for myself.
☯
The airplane is green,
as much as I can believe
anything, this season.
☯
Already done my time,
says the big man, light-skinned,
hand on a bottle.
☯
For just one moment
as he purses his lips
teeth fall from his mouth
☯
The damaged paper
holds the long-dead storm–
when was my light born?
☯
Lovebirds on the screen
take up my whole living room
overhead, the moon.
☯
The end of this track
one metal end in runoff;
square headlights approach.
☯
The crane swings west, south,
yellow metal tons vanish,
still, the window shade.
