One leap year in the harrow,
with February long gone.
There is a near joyous errancy
in the coastal wind.
It’s Memorial Day and the world
has defenestrated itself into color.
The green swell of leaves in the yard
sways to the vagaries of some
lost song about remembrance.
This morning, meeting my reflection halfway,
I derived the equation for defining
the event horizon of a mirrored surface.
I favor the interleavings of language
where silence speaks its verb and muscles its case.
A possible vernacular where sky
is synonymous with wings
and every breath spells closure.
Traffic multiplies itself into slowness.
Three dense lanes of it gleaming like
a dung beetle crusade, teasing entropy’s
coiled sleep. The forecast states
a monk will roast under
God’s own magnifying glass.
Once again the mind sets about
its customary machinations
of needs and wants. Everything the nine million
waves of ocean will drag and smash
against the agglomerate of this life before
a tidal homing blesses us with quiet music
and the weightlessness of stars.
To walk into the lost pilgrimage of this day
and be succored by a dawn of garbage trucks and crows.
The rouge color of clouds an example of how waste
can be recycled into paintings and eschatology,
how industry can be made useful exactly
by all it deems useless.
This is what they write grants about.
The Thermodynamics of Shit in the Post-Industrial Age.
The world churning its steady course toward zero—
a number that renders one twitchy for countdowns
while reminding there's no form of worship more laudable
than breathing and getting on with the tidal redistribution
of grub and grab, woe and glad,
where wingtips and a song may come in handy.
If only the untranslatable gaze of strangers
would refrain from murdering the air I breathe.
If only a transmission lost in the aerials translated
as spectral electric fog and didn't necessarily spell aliens.
Wheeling flocks of starlings perch
and score an elegy along the wires—
its ghost note sustaining throughout the day
into deepest animal night.
A reprise of every gesture I've known
to approximate something like truth.
Grief’s Engine is a Flower
Today each shadow is a giddy cosmonaut
navigating fields of light.
Wherever I stand sprinklers go off
and invite rainbows.
The transparencies of air feel
vertiginous as sky.
Every cloud is pregnant with rain that never falls.
Every tree vibrates with telepathic zest.
Ossicles spell out a symphony
that began in the Mesozoic with giant lizards.
The migratory patterns of vampire bats
have been rerouted to your house in the suburbs.
Politicians in Washington and everywhere else
wear overalls and are muzzled with honesty.
A virus somewhere has decoded the gene
All our liminal angels reel in the dark.
Water Music at The Cortland Review
Threnody at DMQ Review
After Goldsworthy at 87 Bedford
Here at Caliban Page 100
Nowhere Is Also a Place at Juked
Last Wish and Testament at Otis Nebula
Seeking Sanctuary at Hawaii Pacific Review
cloudbusting at Eratio Review
Carpe Diem at Poemeleon