At The Edge of Day
Here, on the borderlands, we live in paper houses
Sleep on rocks and logs and bathe in the rain.
It is a striking existence.
We are made substantial by our deeds and voices.
Water clouds the world with wet and weather
Brings toads writhing up through the mud,
Cactus into bloom.
Pain brings clarity to our dreams and
Staggers through our days like a drunkard
On a ship in a howling storm.
The tossing straightens its path into our hearts.
We breathe the air of desperation.
In the smoky evenings of fire,
Singed by sparks we rage and stomp
among the glowing coals.
Grunting, we pummel the charred wood
sending the showering cinders skyward.
This cannot last.
These days of abandon
that scream against the black pit of forgetting.
We will not remember when we wake to the street sounds
And the abyssal meandering chatter of loose minded drainpipes
That dawn brings dripping and humming, louder and louder
until brutal wordless chant leaps away.
And we are separated into the day.
“Field Concerns for Medical Gladiolas.”
Her voice followed
the butterflies of her hands
dancing up the curve of her
and away into the future
“That’s what my teacher called it.”
The distant butterflies transformed
bright leaves drifting back
in her lap.
At the End of a Dream
As it passed over the house
an ailing ice cream truck’s
Blared and blurted
a warped jangled tune
changing into the call
of a lonely goose
The dream flew with the bird
leaving only a sound
moving into light.
Where Do the Summer People Go?
A pastel pink pump on a porch
where people gather around a heater.
Ed comes up guided by a man who lives in the house.
Big, slow Ed, black bearded and gentle, easy with a laugh,
slouching from couch to couch
never working hard
or wearing out his welcome.
“Hey Ed! I thought you were dead or somethin’.”
I am genuinely glad to see him looking so much the same
as 20 years ago.
Across the silent street children play
in the dark green shadows of the forest.