wheel of sparrows
on birdseed ensō
I poured out back
winter laid at the mercy
of the spring
trees stood side by side
a hundred and twenty years
car on cinder blocks
cat maternity ward
window down to flirt
moon spent the night
at your place one spring night
lost its car keys
a new year’s door
propped open for guests
fog comes in
these stairs to subway
people the fog descending
to ride in human light
forgets where it lives
stops me to ask
dreams make a movie
of things unmovielike
unhand me, it says
enter stagnant pond
to gleam as emeralds
duckweed jeweled necklace
trees pencil the highway
no one around for miles
in galactic spiral
poured from Big Gulp cup
The mirror in this room in winter.
It is not the same as in other seasons.
The trees outside the window
that reflect in this old mirror
are not the same. Its space grows
deeper, its irrational hunger
makes reflection a ruin,
and something I want
all the more.
If you understand, it is
not perfect. The trees
do not understand. So
this antique mirror in this store
“window me,” I say,
to no one in particular
species. You are getting what
far thing from me
you need to understand
the river, I think you said
maybe you, maybe not.
If I fail to speak to you
As a mirror to a stone in a reader’s desert
As a leaf who has fallen on a car’s hood
Well, we know the Gemini of our feelings
You cross yourself throughout several lifetimes just this way
As the whales traverse oceans
This selfsame moment
We have someone else’s difficult conversation
There is no music for my feelings today
That is the problem over here
(I’m all poppy fields this afternoon)
You have a museum for yours
Still, we are birds of a single claw
This is only a cafeteria where we sit
Who do we think we are catfishing?
As the other couples about us
Other bodies beyond the plate glass
Are doing their duty and becoming reflections
On this day of mercurial puddles
That is the real museum
Out there, good luck it says
Our feeling falls
As a stone’s query to a mirror
As a car that tells a dried leaf danging above it
“Jump and I will catch you”
Sleep, birds or wonder, if you must,
Drowse, wrath, weather on your divan,
Unincorporate, madness, return my marbles
Once scattered in such longing luxury of losing
Velvet crush on stranger couch, flit, avaunt,
Jealousy of legion ants swarming a spat candy,
Darken my kingdom’s confectionary door no more,
Fond icing sugary as men, cupped grace, back off my eyes
Braids of leisure in lover’s hammock arms,
String of lions with hair madly loyal, matted tawn,
Subway of escape at 3 a.m., headlight names,
We must break up, my hothead lover is a Coke machine
someone’s form once left lit in bodily street darkness
so now his engines seize
a patriotic quality to reality
that stubs itself
on the toe
I have that
I call you
A crow hunts a wife.
He looks in at the old cemetery.
Some girl crows are laughing,
perched on the tombstones there.
He looks at the garbage dump.
Some girl crows are eating there,
using their seductive beaks
to separate rotten meat from blonde doll hair.
He surveys a fast food dumpster from the air.
Some girl crows are shopping and croaking there,
keeping each other girl company just fine.
The crow flies away eating air.
Hard into nothingness of sky.
The world is so deep in loveliness
it is just impossible.
A fairy tale
down the street
by the divorcing
prince and princess.
Gnomes stand around
in the garden
left holding a magic bag.
Drive past a late summer match on a blue tennis court under shade
of a park’s greenest trees. Green shadows on a tennis court
of bluest blue, where young plays old, old plays young,
before it maybe happens, a quiet game elsewhere,
in other shadows, meshes of the afternoon, not hard fought
on either side really, since it’s nothing, nobody for keeps.
Be generous as the moon is with its light.
Give much for a while, then, maybe,
just a little, diminish, night by night.
Then disappear entirely for a while.
And reappear as just the teeniest sliver,
a Cheshire smile. This should turn your lover
to a lunatic, and keep your bedlife