number 29

the blue sky
has brought out all
the happy idiots
who have never seen the sun
and stand
staring at it without welder’s glass
mouths open

and maybe this is a kind
of spring fever
a delirium of summer hunger

tomorrow will be the last day of the weekend
ten degrees cooler
with overnight rain
fewer cars
less happy idiots

number 26

we march
we tread upon the soft ground
we march
our feet sink into sand
the water rushes in to fill footprints
liquid erasure
we march
the earth gives us up
more easily than a ghost
passing before a bright light
our feet evaporate

we march
the earth cracks
and crackles like bacon fat
we march
and fire leaves not even ashes
no smudge of soot
or trace of foot

we march
only on the moon
remains evidence
of our small steps
awaiting bombardments
of stone
to take even that

number 23

i am you
little junco
though the dog did not chase me
though rough hands did not scoop me
from the grass
though i was not cupped protectively
to still my heart and calm my nerves
nor carried to safety

when you opened your beak
in rage so profound
you could not make a sound
when it looked as if you wheezed
because you could not articulate
your displeasure
your disgust at requiring rescue

little bird
i am you

number 22

i had a brilliant idea
earlier for a poem
not an idea for a brilliant poem
but a brilliant idea
and that idea was this

pretend i had a brilliant idea
for a brilliant poem
but allowed the passing of time
to let that flame wither
and sputter out
without feeding it
a sufficient jumble of
sounds and symbols
to truly turn it into
a conflagration of truth
so profound
you’d feel physically ill
just reading it

then realized
that would just be