Maybe I Have the Bronze

Maybe I have the bronze

heebie-jeebies

again,

full

of dinner

plans excited.

My body won’t

heal

anymore,

so I relate

to the flooding.

This is normative,

the

diabolical

inching toward I

don’t

believe

in chairs.

Call for backup,

crow,

this is

getting proud.

If I lose

one
more
button,

surrender me

to
the
dance.

My Resolution Sparrowed

My resolution sparrowed

over the wall

to

true

summer,

a landscape

silly without a

grievance at all.

Lying would describe

it
as
the
place

tomatoes

call wilderness.

Some of the leaves

are blue

fedoras. Water

grows on slender

mountains, trickles

down

to

hours.

Someone

is learning to

play the magenta.

There’s no reason

to

hyde.

After Scrubbing the Dirty

After scrubbing the dirty

kitchen window screen

with the bristly white

brush, he rinsed

it

with the hose,

then dried it with

the old yellow towel

his father had given

him.

He held the screen

up and looked

at the sun

through

its

grid.

Light

obliterated

at first, then

reinforced

the

dark lines

of separation.

I’m Walking On

I’m walking on

serrated

tombs

inside

of which

no softness

blooms. I wish

I had the very

seed

to satisfy

these yawning

wombs. We fantasize

a brand new creed

of undermining

what

we

need.

The distances

we’ll
never

go, to ratify

a stolen

weed.

Don’t say,

for instance.

Don’t
say

so . . .

Your lightness

perpetrates

a

No.

These weakened

stances

on
the
leak,

are nothing

but an undertow.

It’s funny how we

start to speak

in voices

trickling

as

a creek.

A little bird

with
gaping

beak, is

perpendicular

to

weak.

If You Miss

If you miss

the opportunity

to personify

grace,

return

to the script

and find your

silence.

How

many

irises are

ignored by how

many

eyes

in the haunting

day
light?

We are sold

to the passing

caravan

en

route

to the oblivion

of our destiny.

We

can’t

help ourselves

away from timeliness.

You

will

be good

for the final.

It’s irresistible
and unconscious.

You are better

than

a rose,

at staying

in the garden

of Her wilderness.

My Vagrant Compassion

My vagrant compassion

is arrested too

late

by

a curling

leaf, on the

asphalt margin

of 19th Avenue, north

of

my

exertion. I was riding my dark
bicycle as fast as inhumanly

possible to get

strong,

so.

I didn’t notice what wasn’t

in the was. There is

no
green

in the nearly

or the hereafter.

She Opened the Top

She opened the top

of the litter

box

and saw

the darkened

clumps of urine

and the darker

leavings

of shit. She knew there would be
more beneath the undulating

grey

granules.

She began.

It was powerful,
the ability
to

clean

for a being

who was perfectly

able

otherwise,

she told herself,

mollifying

the
mundane.