this day

This day is (un)like any other . this day is(n't), Like another . I've (not) noticed, Rain drops  . can be disruptive to others . others much smaller, And some colors . don't speak their names as loudly . on some days (un)like others.

bug

That fly put a bug in my ear . the buzz of dear names . not clear but clearly . the ointment, It came to swim.

fingered

What was wished for was waiting . one fuzzy caterpillar wiggling to the end . of a twiggy finger, It brings many more . fuzzies with it . they ring the hand, To leave . to land . to eat the green . grow and change . aging it.

chirps

The cricket chirps crack open the night's . lips, Draw out reluctant tips . tongued with indigo accents, They trip me into melancholic descents . a chalk-line tracing of the face I miss

what you love

You can't always be good . at what you love, The moon loves . to brood, Its moony face . however moody can't, Shake the dear Sun's brightness . not nearly.

look for

What you should look for isn't . what the screen tells you (it) is(n't) suspicious, Look for . not what's packaged and left . unattended, Look what's right (be)for(e) you, It's the sparrows' shallow hops . down narrow aisles, They stop and go . unafraid and even if unrewarded . (it) do(es)n't stop them, Follow where they go and know what s(cr)een(s) can('t) be trusted.

take and give

This spider takes . elegant strides . not long but long for its size, It gives . no sign of its purpose . but it's purposeful . and wisely striding, To the tourist's surprise . he's snapping photos of skyscrapers . without clouds to scrape from the sky . and I'd ask him (if asking mattered), Why . marvel at glass and concrete . or steel or marble . when there are marvelous spiders . striding so discreetly nearby, To steal a purpose . and give it back to the wise.

give and take

it's not a given, What's given. who's. taken, I've given it a little. thought, Riddled it out. days ought to stay unnumbered, Strangers. brought to or taken. ought too, Stay. unnamed.

white and black

The shock is sight's. this white dart of dragon, Flying where I can't follow. from blade edge to golden petal to a trashed dull brown bay. or it's impossible to catch, Big and black and beetling into a crack. frightened away by my clank of metal door.

catbird

What the catbird squeaks isn't meant. for me, It speaks not-words. that don't teach or explain or describe, And yet they do. its not-words. the catbird's, Reach my ears, and the ears they need to.

bees

Some things. you cling to, Or they cling. to you and your likes, Like that bee. a dull drone, It's seeing. itself for the first time, in a Mirror. and it's clinging to it. like you would, To life.

I'd

I'd fall, Fitter. it's fitting. failing to fit it all, Inside where those who've died live not alive but present. they're content to influence or try to, How I live. they've tried and I've intended to thank them. I couldn't fit them in. those thanks with all the other good and bad intentions. not dead but dying, To be outside.

There but for

There but for now. here, The grace of unknowable gods goes. me a mere trace of what they can be, I don't know them or I can't. but I do, Know they're not. too mighty or merciful with their slightest. hands, Those invisible but not invincible hands. they used to grant me life.

muddle

In the middle it gets muddled, What can't end. and the intended where we'd started. we pretended it, The startling hues washing in. washing away again to lost shores. and the dull thud of doors shutting.

doors

When one door opens. or you open it (not all doors know when. to open) for someone else, Nothing. had to close, Everything. it opens to. was there waiting for you. and them, The small. glassy orange petals without stems. they're really butterfly wings to bear us. across the tops of untended grasses. a dog. mottled brown and white. has eyes smiling bright. blues as wide as, The sky. she wants to be carried along beside us. an old man's wheel-chair. bound (by old fights) and wanting to share. his mis-remembered stories. with us, He's frowning at another door. waiting to be opened.

particle lives

My mind reads in lines (one word. then a person. then another moment passes by, It makes sentences of time) but it feels. flow, The waves of particle lives going. out and in, Through sheer, rippling curtains. to uncertain futures. and back again, They collapse with me. we, Crossing paths and colliding. spilling our messy stories into each other, Wordlessly.

clocks

The clocks in this room don't tell. time, They're not broken. they talk of times. Times held dear. the nearness to them left unspoken.