Sunday, September 30, 2007

Series: Some of my Time (Given to the Wind)

Far Brooklyn moon,
couched in all our dirt,
tell it again
how there never was
any path for me to lose.

                               pursuing friends—
                               a banana peel swaddling
                               the sidewalk tree

April showers—
a fjord of rain water
guts the subway track

                               One by one,
                               I dismantle those
                               I've yet to even touch.
                               Always again
                               these prayer beads grow loose.                        

day moon—
jazz drum from
the academy window

                               late evening train—
                               a theatre student
                               explaining herself

Dismiss always
the need for anyone;
until then
at the city rim
lights pushing lights.

                                       scything away
                               from light polution—
                                   the rising half of moon

morning after rain—
a capsized june bug
in the flower box

                               Because of distance,
                               I but drift about you always
                               from all sides;
                               a Pyrrhic victory: to assign time
                               for beautiful things.

summer roof meditation—
a beer can trolling
in the darkness

                               shaky subway car—
                               everyone nodding
                               to my headphones

A phoenix bird for each of us
these two falling stars,
boring holes
through New York night
and the coming unknown.

                               warmest evening wind—
                               a slow murmur populates
                               my earbuds

nowhere burning
a retna stain—
the moon chopped in two

                               Our electric storm,
                               a lightning rose sprayed
                               from empty sky;
                               on the hindmost plane
                               there is nowhere to run.

city bus prophesy—
"wait for light
then open door"

                               greasy business—
                               a majong match
                               in the auto yard

Suppose it's alright
to be more than okay;
far off,
six fingers of sun fishing
through nimbus cloud.

                               evening train—
                               the silver hand rail becomes
                               her silver balloon

summer's end—
rooftop pipe steam
given to the wind