Sometimes my rake strikes sparkswhen I scratch the rocks or gravel—Lovers wave to soldiers on the trainin black & white movies I have seen—They cry into their handkerchiefs— The swish of my rake against the dirtmakes mountains of your
Once, while lying on a beach up north in California, I saw a whale’s spout, an explosion of released water, a trumpet’s blurt blasting from underneath the thick blue carpet of Pacific Ocean, a quick glimpse—a firefly’s blink-flash, the
He asks me for a song, so I sing one just for him. I sing of these unholy gifts stolen from within the refuge of music. A pale moon loiters among the geometry of stars. They know about us:
We fandango/tango, our steps contradyne.** You whirl in circles; I walk the line. Your color wheel reeling spins textures of feeling. I devise derivations for rainbow equations. How would it be if we combined your circle and my line?
She was shaded in fragments of yellows and blues. Found lost in a window of heavenly stains, Stashed away in an unknown frontier, Considering intently with a hum of nerve connections and synapses alike. All encapsulated in a hue
Barefoot girls sit cross-legged against the arch in Washington Square Park chatting on a crisp spring day when the entire world fits neatly into the pockets of their embroidered jeans Their hopes, still intact, like golden-crusted rhubarb pie cooling
Should they call me sentimental for riding by your old place to see the steps where you waited for me on long ago dates when I’d borrowed my dad’s Plymouth as he always had allowed? Should they call me
In the one for self-awareness A man beheads a chicken Beneath a crescent moon. Shooting stars twist and turn. In the background, a figure Stands hunched over a well. Two men hang from Joshua trees On both sides of
On the unexpected vast mount, a single path goes in all directions. The hiker is lost, and signs are gone, but from a hole close by come tiny steps, drawing the eye to a small and shy white fur.