experience

The experience of the tree is the tree's, its shriveling leaves, the seeds
it gives freely, whether the wind, the sparrows
or this narrow
patch of untended black earth take one. No one, not one, needs
you to guide them.

Mistaking

There are no mistakes but
                                            Mistaking I've taken
                                                                               Asphalt for sea
The sky for clearer
                                 Dryer waters
My feet for faulty
                                fins The sin's in not
                                                                 Swimming upward with them

calls to come

The call that doesn't come couldn't Come from a coolly composed moon Soon to come under shadowy circumstance's calling To mind the bite of calls not come With a clear and cherished clanging Autumnal in its coming

friction

The frictions of night bleed the fictions from me But not the need

Freed to spill out in spells the fictional Blood tongues new trails of a milky blue

It spills them out It speaks them Silken roads to take me They walk me where more fictions pool

Wells of words dipped into with a diction so precise I can't not believe the lies

stencil

The sidewalk stencil isn't confidential . but it is . confident It'll be alright

I pass two . strangers on two . benches and their sense is I'm not . too Strange a face to question . and gauge . the stencil's foresight

I walk

The pretty city street I walk is less traveled . than visited It comes with thin star-lit trunks . anonymous stones that plunk . into tall grass and foot prints sunk . in the cement These shoe prints . printed to fit my foot I won't . step in them

Last morning . I dreamed of fog This night . the fog comes rolling in

quest(ion)s

The quest(ion)s don't stop, they're positively charged and they hop back to where I've been, the now that's then colliding with the finding of again.