~The swell and billow of a cloud in the blue hand of the sky. The slowness of its permutations, and how it imagines into life these tiny brown birds who poke about the lawn in their tweedy jackets. Above, three gulls- raucous captains of the currents. Those rude overseers.~
***
In the switched-off kitchen I peered through drapes of grey lace, transfixed at the sight: a mirror hall of backyard infinities, benighted in a mute of blue. The straight rise of chimney smokes seeping secrets into heaven.
At water’s edge
I plied the sand
for vacant shells
and stones to skip,
so flat.
There,
there was a tree
that had given up,
acute in its angle,
embarrassed at the nakedness of its bleached roots.
Close by,
an eyeless carcass grinned,
in the throes of its last hysterics.
Move on, we must.
In boxes and bins,
I carry my proxy love
to the Stow-Away garage.
Outside,
the smirking cat has his wild bones on,
drawing a bead on a tattered squirrel
that curves down a dead-bowed limb.
Night
In the lush bush,
there’s something that laughs.
Treed,
in a frightful dream it lolls,
fetching cheshire smiles.
~Move on~
the blue man says,
and we must.
I must.
But, there is no donkey tail to pin.
I’m blind, as i finger the braille
on this pincushion map.
***
Art work by Theophile Steinlen – Chat au Claire de Lune (from Pinterest)
An apprehension
of not knowing the next move
An assumed word
left out
that should have been there
The world goes cartoonish
Walk with me
for I may not know the way
Talk with me
for I know not what to say
Do not trust me
anymore
for I am poor
and I watch a different show
This is wee,
the hour.
I play coy
with sleep,
thinking
that if
I ignore it
and feign
that I am
fighting it,
it will engulf me
out of spite.
But no.
Its navigator
plies me
with pages
from afternoon fades,
jukes in studied loops.
Sheep have gone out of style,
I think.
Down here, tonight,
on the green ground,
it’s quiet and still,
vacuumed.
I look up, by chance,
to test for rain.
The darkening clouds sail,
like a float of smoke.
A diamond of dirty gulls
rides the breeze, like flying M’s,
and I fancy I feel feather fluff
and whoosh of wings
I was one for Drama,
but the frame was the thing.
I wanted only to be
the swelling strings,
the muted xylophone,
the kettle drum tympanic.
I would whip the most mundane
into the unforgettable.
Make you think your sadness
into music.
All in allegory
of our mad desires.
Detect the fault lines
in a stubborn peanut shell
Wet-nose the whiskery cat
Feel the points he makes
out of soft pads
Let the large leaf ant
explore your jungle
Unite or untie your ganglion knots
Sniff a crocus
keep your focus
She felt like a foot
with uniform toes.
Something to cover,
but familial
to her apartness.
In her years,
she picked up tools
both shiny and showy,
but of the wrong life.
Fools’ gold,
valued as real,
was lost on her.
Untrainable.
Mulish, they said.
Others of us knew
differently.
Aremyfeetofftheground 