Echoes

This is the valley bellow the
mountain of omnipotence, bellow
the myopic god whose breath
transports the scene from this quiet
lake, this still, this stubborn entropy. 
There are rash footsteps, reactive ice
and snow, combative smoke curling
into a frozen temperature, sere
landscape and inviting doors —
there is soft movement forward
into weakened sunrise.

Consideration erodes this scene,
transports it down fresh rills
like music slithering from a piano,
exploiting each weakness until the
only acceptable chord is the one
created by streetcars puncturing
midnight, mostly empty, mostly
carrying unrealized dreams and a
scattering of hope, a dollop of fear,
a taste of bile rising like the tide, like
your words, which still echo
long after their strangled birth.

Day Trip

Compressed by traffic, streets
seldom sing songs for asphalt
and tires — hardly ever speak
to sidewalks, condo mountains,
lights like strobe time.  Yoked to
commerce, shop windows are
are a reflected image of passing
pedestrians, disinterested mantra
marinated in profit.  Pedal to
the medal, people leak from
doors, nova in a wildfire of
love burning nothing except
their cocoons.  Metamorphosis —
regression until the only words
which are heard are babble —
the final direction of sunlight
and imploding creation.

I Know

Stance and the romance of
success — this transcendental
knowledge.  This place which
exists — which flows with the
wide brushstrokes of a river.

This valley which caves inward
to the money deltas where we
would all love to live;  forage for
sunlight with a pose back-dropped
by success’s self-esteem.

When rain falls and drums its way
along the spine of all my words
I wonder if anyone has heard
the least and most of my tales
the lies that litter the walkways

of all our lives.

Fantasy

the good day — this is
a dapple of — sidewalks
and walks around the conspiracy
of corners — and trees snipping
away at horizons — Cabernet
lipped bus doors opening and
the mind outdoors walking —
this good day when rain is
a rivulet in another country —
the country of retired  devices
like money and pecking —
order in the forgotten
consonants of bed sheets
strewn asunder like rocks and
favours — this is a good day
when fragile cloud carousels
cavort with time enough —
time like footsteps and fingerprints
and raised eyebrows — time
enough to click your heels
three times — time enough
to return — time enough to
rearrange the furniture of
conversations and events
until the only room you
recall well you don’t —
time enough to move along.

Sell Myself

sell my poetry.  I’m

uncertain as to what
the order is.

Though in every word
an escape appears
and running is imperative.

As is a twilight sky and
morning an awkward snail
creeping down the rising.

This dichotomy between
the edges persists like
clouds and sidewalks

populating the inner eye
with half-formed thoughts
which wander.  In strange

Lands they sit and spy

upon each curvature
of the human word

each space between what

was meant to be
and what remains

tailings of a conversation

consumed like draught
like local wine

like every tale carried 

home in a crumpled
photograph from
where you were

a memory rearranged
like the bed in which
you dreamed.

Deep Freeze

The wind
from Michigan 
continues to unravel 

crossing Huron.  Cold 
with frantic snow. 

Light thins, it is
five o’clock. 

The dog needs 
to be walked.  

In my sedentary heart, 
I know that love 

will never last.  It 
appears, like snow.  

Spring is forever imperative.
Without the heat of stars,
there is no universe.