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Re: construction


Today there is oil in the sunrise on Broadway

hot asphalt pouring

Mercury into retrograde


nasturtium keels down

to keep pests at bay

to write in a love song / to fill our space

circle and cradle

sing, sun and slow death


We are not speaking

so we can find the beat

sway and sink

pave and repave / pave and repair

unearthing forgiveness is a hard day's work


it feels good

to lean in while our oil is hot

press out our wrinkles

and not forgetting the curve and cut

the cool and cleanse





A caged dog

it is something in the way a caged dog runs
not to or from but for the sake of running
without ease
it leads each step with an urgent gaze
open land!

something suspicious in a caged dog's love
bending coy behind the first layer
eyes toward no thing and into nowhere
but on to the other side as if to suspect 

something mournful in a caged dog's voice
emptying, nagging
attuned to disregard
I cannot forget it

something a caged dog always lacks
a know-how 
simplicity to which one cannot put a finger
just a bad dog, they'd say.

Coming and going

our collected dwellings listed
not in all ways held

in the coming
returning and lingering
spheres soiled with everdayness

a whiff in the hall 
a smoldering sensation 
simmered down 
reduction, recollection.

in going
inclination and desire and judgement,
the necessity for unknowns 

driving into oneself -
nails and steering wheels
tears to shed pounds and form
guile from groundwater



Ducks fly the pond:

call to mind my reputation. Coupled with careening gridlock hum, seething through a thin tree skin holding my zigzag water body in. Perched I'm facing North and trying for connection, trying to match yonder tranquility yonder somewhere. Awaiting the return. Me and this gnarled plastic, circling. 


Where smoke soaks through deep blue
to gold dew and overripe fruit
we rest our eyes on a summer moon

a sudden black treeline broken by lights
swaying in late night, lake-like time

fireworks burn
fire works down

table and mantle consumed all at once

we are cinder, we are cold 

we are matter, we are older

we are finding time 

and a fine line

July just waiting on June again

A first Christmas

to grow new ideas
at old hours
How time does us all in 
calls us together again

Christmas is a sad season for the poor 
and I almost gave it to you as a gift
you would laugh and then feign astonishment
brimming with adoration for my effort


Married to the sporadic, polluted laughter
peeling through your ceiling tiles
my thoughts recline and roll away
mangled wad of a day's news
to flutter through beams of streetlamp hush
Refuse on the loose

Tomorrow will clutter today
and the day after the same
until the quiet of our next embrace
when birds settle in,
wind drains thin
and the moths begin to chase themselves to sleep


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