Soul’s memory, if not the skeleton of creation,
either way laughs unhingedly at its own frosty green tide
bracing and churning for the chiming clocks in punch-out
keeperofthetime lines, turning clean-wiped doors open to see
what the grey-blanketed blue sky has to oculate back in mirror eyes
for the first time in a clock’s lifetime of otherwise circularity.
Ready now but never really for the afternoon rush hour trip,
circles peeling open for the first time in a day’s singular lifetime
of punch-clock tickets and scratch-off numbers of what-if;
but no there’s no time but to think of nothing instead, really.
To sing without glory, wandering about with the newspaper clippings,
not trusting what was heard about the stories, it’s told through a lens.
We saw the trouble at birth really, and it need not burden a reminder;
formality of occasion, the sap of essence drilled of oil at its hive.
Honked horns, hailing cabs, and a haunting ache of death—
not that it would but it will; why not think but for its inevitability.
Walked dogs with hand leashes along cement trees
cut into squares that line dimensions of the public square.
With its symmetry if feels quite right to be pedaling over circulating
silences among projecting mental images while we stand by the red sign
braced inside pelts on the way to the parking garage to go home
and away from the square cement trees that we tap feet on;
with the world waiting patiently for homebound and
we stand for the color to change while together and alone.