Some Angels from a silent night
had gathered on a day,
for so it was their Lord’s delight
to watch them all at play.
On silky chains
and silver chairs,
they circled round and round,
and sang a song of heavenly stairs,
and joyous was the sound.
“Italy” it said to me
as I pushed the earplug in.
And dreamed about covidity,
and things that might have been.
Coffee mornings, browning air
embolden fauna fair.
Investigators in the yard
come closer, on a dare.
Gimme those geometries,
those triangles and squares,
Dimensional anomalies,
to tesseract my cares.
Compasses and sliding rules;
protractors are the rage.
And, adding and dividing tools
put answers on the page.
So, at my desk, I’m bent upon
the solving of equations.
This genius that borders on
the softest of invasions.
I taped my mouth shut
for ten years,
‘til a professional told me
it was wrong,
I should wean.
There were pills, too,
that hypnotized
the disobedient sleep,
then upsold themselves.
On my knees,
I considered cuts,
and reached for a siren’s call.
But here
now
today
biding time.
If you would,
talk some sense into me.
Or,
just talk some sense.
I am in short supply,
you see.
I have broad and muscled shoulders
from clenching the etched-in tension.
A hard head with a coconut brain
to unveil the dumb mornings.
Those that move in this captivity
are bound to me,
but we are foreign
to one another.
Remember how to sing.
If not, to hum,
or whistle a waltz.
Understand the beast,
and restrain it
with a stumbling spot dance.
Think of your goodness,
and not of your sin.
Of the young,
for they are short of life.
Of your faith, or your doubt,
and the quality of prayer.
Lit the lights
in the empty black.
Spun off gaseous globes,
quick travelers caught in the slow sway
of their mothers.
Some boil down
with seeded airs.
A witching’s then afoot.
Hards and softs and liquids.
Bright lodes to find and mine.
And mind, next door-
Venus is venous.
The slant of the sun.
The moss-green mechanic
with his fat cigar,
chuffing like a chimney.
The little kid threesome
on the gravel shoulder,
fist-pumping the diesel driver.
and the undetected grasshopper
atop my dusty boot.
How slowly I move.
I’ve never been here,
but I know it.
What’s lent
is a conjured greenfield.
A tree spreads,
knows the horizon.
I will feed
on atmosphere aquamarine
and minty clouds.
Give a cry at tempting scenes
of primal histories,
and wonder at our peoplings.
What words?
What doings?
With ages I am filled.
With cages, I am killed.
Hey..
What’s in that bag you drag?
I have a box of my own.
It’s well known to me.
So, what do you think is fair?
Rock, paper, scissors,
the loser opens first?
I don’t mind.
I’m tired of its weight,
and long to let the moths loose.
Or, you know,
we could just practice being born.
Aremyfeetofftheground 