spring bang

the hissing Big Bang
all there is as filtered light
edging angled branch
as cool clear moist air
as green grey patched cream plane tree
pellucid shadows

spring cleaving

when the sun falls hot
a man with a chainsaw cleaves
branches from the trunk
brilliance without form
and void blasts through my eyes hits
the back of my mind

spring

the light a giddy
thing courses through the cosmos
crashes to pieces
in the jagged holes
the leaves bursting into green
cut out of the sky

Sentience

This May morning, I open the windows; light,
filtered, inexorable, fills all; the breeze
is cool, soft, heavy, variable; the leaves
are shades—light and bright and deep—of green; the sky
is subtly mottled creamy grey; now the birds
chirp and, as dark specks, lift and fly—here, away.

Occurrences

A child laughs, across the street, a flash of red.
A barking dog, cars rush, continuities
break—cough of a starting car, mother speaking
in rhythms slipping into abrupt stillness.
We don’t comprehend anything that occurs—
silky cool sheer smoothness of morning quiet.

Reading

To catch you in the act, the fact, of reading—
to catch me in the act, the fact, of writing—
naked time in this promiscuous meeting—
naked space in flagrante delicto—wing
it, in the long crying, in the dark lifting,
the birds’ sudden red clamor interrupting

Non sequitur

My mother, father, aunt, and uncle—”just us”—
talk on the train in an exquisite other
world of transitory time and space; the mood
of intimate solitude opens between . . .
but then sudden interrupting eavesdropping . . .
the glance, the mute decision to talk nonsense,

All

All’s words squirreling on thinly present lines
before they leap vast voids in singular bounds,
the lattice window casting patterns of light,
angled sunlight in an unclouded morning,
the same patterns, still and soft, in falling dusk,
from the street light after I turn the lights out.

Serendipity

Pick a word, any word—serendipity
say, an admittedly scampish, campy tramp—
a loosey-goosey waif. Her father conceived
her, commendably assisted in her birth,
named her, and then abandoned her; her mother,
magic, was, he said, a “fairy-tale” rumor—

Syncopations

“Use your words”—as if they’re tame, but words are wild
absences conflating-distinguishing all,
tumbles of thundering tranquility (you,
dear reader, other, lover, mother of time),
artifacts wailing, raging, syncopating,
galumphing (you falling between), smoothing space,