In Which Things Move

The wind moves in the future
with soft wings – it brushes the leaves
hanging in the air with the trees

The clouds change:
a gradient of grey to blue-black
– and we too, walking beneath.

Our mouths open to let breath leave
while the red of your nails scatters
on the walls

The words spoken move
through the past, and your smile
leaves your face to land on my head

Three days later
it’s still there, folding and unfolding
like a butterfly, warming in the sun

I. 6×6, With Reference to Rain

A tree is falling down
somewhere, always – the bark
perhaps shed – no matter
whatever the state – all
trees fall at some time – or
decay takes them slowly

the point is – all that noise
all that lost feeling calls
out louder than grass growth
louder than the mushroom’s
creaking love of all life
ingesting – and bright plants

– they swarm in a dancing
wind and send small sermons
out from damp petals – out
in the clouded darkness
out in the beading rain
every single gold day.

There are arguments made –
witness the ant’s rebuke
to the flat earth’s respite
witness the air breathing
the whole flotilla in
and with a breath again

this shout of all star-fall.
Billion years refute still
longer still years – it’s mad
considering the dark
to look at this strong joy
at all this cafuffle

A plane beams – a car moans
a shed settles – notice;
while all this can be changed
there is still the moment
when you unwrap a gift
hear the rain’s soft shuffling.

Two Fragments

I –

The rain sets a gradient on greens
Old lithograph fade, with yellows
Flickering, charring them, peeling
As if cloud, slate dark depressed
Is absent mindedly flicking through filters.
But there is a joy to this substance
A chunky soup for the steaming
For the hungry, who evaporate within
Its vacuum of feeling.
Only at twilight, such a light.
After, the streetlamps pale as soggy
Worm corpses, settle on the streets.
I miss the phosphor orange glow
Of the days when I was younger.
Today, I miss it. Maybe not tomorrow.

II –

Pylons grew out of the flesh of the land
Iron bones of blood-rust thrust through
scaffolds to hold up the cloudsky – how
The rocks were insufficient now
Heaven has grown heavier and heavier,
only metal and electrics can halt it
since it dropped off hurtling downward
toward the cold earth’s blank plates.