inconsistent, see

Inconsistent, see
I am, just what I told you
and not. Where it went,
I don't know. Where did it go,
the Sympathy? It's not mine,
or not now.
The weight is. The
weight came
fast. Faster than the wait
left, or tried to. Not all
at once. It hopped in
and out like the sparrows
who visit, interchangeably,
inconsistently, wanting
but not daring,
then gone.

The play of histones

Every one
is some(d)
one else's other(s),
added to
their bothers
cares fears and druthers,
another(s) but not other(s)
truly, just a
same(d) one
different(ed) in the play
of histones.

Higher math

Your math
may pattern it, death,
in threes. I count
it, an error, in
the account-
ing

Folk of the future

These formidable folk of the future are
fetched in by the round out of your ears,
the tales you sound of forgotten games
not the fact you came from a pastful same

And there will be no

praise for Folly, Erasmus, from these lips,
or from what I use as lips, the tips
of fingers I've let linger without expertise
on a feeling less feeling than desire to tease
what I can, or they may, from a simple rock.
I found it on the spoiled ground I walk,
alongside hop-scotch squares chalked
to dare jumps from steps I give to the bare
concrete. Its smooth brown whisper
hints at lost red, but it hasn't led me to what
formed it: not what gravity of years; not
the great weight of a wait uncounted; not the slow
or sudden forces that freed it. I don't know
any of it. I'm not as foolish as the French
academic I read who studied a people at length,
and their region others had named. He claimed
to know what makes, or made, them different. The same
I could say for a taco chain and its bravado
at being expert in making flavorless burritos.
I'll boast instead of the plastic bear.
It's clearly grown better at holding air
than the honey leaving it. I also like this rock, and what
matter it's expert in. It's this rock, until it's not.

Trees make a bad choir

The woman, out-of-seasonally in
her winter's attire, fire-red
jacket and woolen cap, snaps
off rounds of sermons. Full-on
leafy, on a late-spring's early
morn, the parked trees stretch and stand
stately in their disbelief.

ouroboros

an
ouroboros
hour devouring
its all. our's to flow
and flower. to borrow
more
ouroboros hours

runon

iwriteivewritmy
runons
thoseothersanother
sadandhappypunctuates
punctuated
idoidid

Soon

What's the use of a fulla love
moon if ya can't swoon a little
at the too soon of it. I will.

lavender and gray

The story of gray and of lavender
is a product of their time together,
of arcing heights, yellows arranged, the lines
of ocean scold, and a bye-going sliver,
and they tell it, this story and their time,
to no one unwilling to hold its shine

still

The still air still carries
a heavy light, wing beats
heavier than the wait
of tires, these tires waiting
to resume their susurrous rush

who tends

who tends the dying sparrow(?)
not the sky
with the many
not the sky
so many to hold

I held distance and it was(.)
light not sad
for the many
not saddened
so many dying

unbecoming

It's become unbecoming,
this becoming
becoming less.

Into each life... no,
into (and after) each rain,
a little life.

Must the flies come?
They've come, falling
back into stories no one

needed to tell. The crawls of
unwelcome spiders
follow, and more

unbecoming.

risen

It's the sun that's risen. O, it rises again
and again. The you flares from it, again, and then
it rolls away rock eyes and it reveals to them
all that's alive in the face of non-living things.

medusa

This Medusa tree,
its viper's nest of limbs,
their tender green tongues
slipping free, freezes me.

space

Not only time's
relative. There's space,
and the zigzag paths
over dried needles.
I've found great distance
in a single step;
the plod that connects
me to young flowers.
Lightness'll come crossing
mouthy oceans; tongues
to teach me close. Mine's
an old, restless soul.

get

What's the get in letting
go, again? It's one when,
a daffodil moment.
That then, a yellow's warm's
warmest, before it goes,
spent. You hold it, the warmth
warmer yet for getting,
and let the yellow go
to where so many went.

unseasonable

Spring's put on a dampening chill
to tamp down hope before it spills
too soon. The sparrows still feel it,
as they wash in slants of splintering

rays. The gulls play to another,
duller air. They reel through steel gray
patches, and complain to a catch
of wind in their most unappealing

voices. I won't listen, or I'll miss them,
the season's softest lines. They bud
and bloom and rhyme with a spray of wishes
that crocus up to my mind betraying

the hand behind poems greater than mine

plastic

Two-hundred twenty twisted balloons bloomed
overnight around a horse-footed rider,
their stick-stems in imperfect headstone rows.
The anger I hold was always in danger,
inflated color losing to cooler airs.

winter wet

I smelled summer on an asphalt's winter
wet. The cardinal, hopping yet, knew it,
and lent me a tune made for faulty lyrics.
So I sang the earth, deep in its brown sleep,
a dream to green the glinting hints of her.