In a broken sunday looking glass

missing places never been
in dissolving footstep mathematics

bringing leaf sheets

edges on a wild calendar

for sleeping through

into wide open suns

past wingbeats

moments

that are all you can do

to keep the dragonfly propeller

out of your matted words

Things in a brick wall

smooth apologies

for riding into the night

without consent

as if I were camouflaged

and dancing in a circle of horns forever

stars in a burning pattern

around the song-range of snow

your radioactive eyes

acknowledging

the edge of a thing

like a wall strewn with lovelettering

glancing over your shoulder

for the thieves of paradise

Conspiring psychic (or a secret’s bones)

exhaust from this

fortunes fumes

eradicate witnesses

to this here calliope cashing in

but don’t look down

it’s first to instate

the feeling that secrets

with a life of their own

don’t own the heart

or the tendrils of this radioactive forest speaking

Fourteen

I’m hiding transcendental flowers

in survival kits – automobiles

that glide through the arms and mock the mind

on alternate days. I’ll be sued because

I love to break the silence and run on clouds,

screaming for your secret place.

And the precarious urge

looks you in the eye and knows your hurt specifically,

points it out on a blank map – it’s ridiculous.

I’m asking you to climb into my hand.

I’m giving up balancing

to levitate beyond the voids of words.

Angel

A carpet once laid late at the feet of an angel. It was bashful and red. The angel had wings so she carried it into the late night sky. The angel fell asleep and the carpet wrapped around her to keep her warm. Slowly it began to glow and became the sunrise. Clouds covered it and the angel slept deeper and dreamed and in her dream the sun grew close. While the angel slept it rained and brought the angel and the carpet both back to earth. The angel woke laying on the floor on a tattered carpet. Bits of dust had gathered on it and she looked up and saw the stars. The carpet asked, can we just sit here for a while? And the angel smiled a cherishable smile and said, no let’s fly.

The idea of a clearing

in the sky inside

the sun you desired burns

it is the heat you want

to free you from winter

winter always mocking your nostalgia

the untimely remarks

a spirit not quite vanishing

but unable to grasp itself

you will become familiar

with the idea of a clearing

which is most like summer

not that this is separate

from the ones you love

or how to reach them

in the sky inside

the sun you desired burns 

Fretted Instrument

When you’re feeling

            oversweetly moved

by the quiet hum

            of passing traffic,

there’s always

            an uncertain anxiety,

and tassels growing listless

            in the breeze

to keep you feeling

            like you’re tied

to a reality,

            or at least longing

to be held in check.

            At least

there’s movement

            in uncertainty –

it befits you

            to feel a certain shock

at your own audacity,

            or maybe your humility

is beaming toward

            the surface.

Maybe you should have

            thought

twice, before creating

            the conditions

for advice. If you

            depart

before we have a chance

            to say

goodbye, at least you

            know

that there’s nothing in

            teaching

that should ever resemble

            someone’s pride

being shattered. If you

            want to know,

this has been a pleasant

            encounter

for me, and I hope

            one day

these oversweet

            sentiments are

just coming to a close

            when we meet

again, somewhere outside

            of here.