Mutual Agreement
Let’s make a deal:
You can descend from the pleasant moon
when midnight arrives and stay to chat until six.
I will brave this graveyard shift under the veil of sleep’s
heavy urging—meet you halfway—or as much as I can
since my feet can hardly leave the earth that tugs
upon even gossamer, which you are not even of—
just a skein of dropping memory to touch and dissolve
through my skin and cells without a loss of lifting up, up
at any time—
but only at the dawn, if you agree—mother—
to visit in these hours unmeant to be sensed
as present in a breathing body whose blind sight
should be set on dreams, which your dip back here is,
but waking, as I will be lucid, I guarantee, my part
of the bargain, as we both breach the possible,
meet on uncommon ground just for a spell—
now common—
conversing in the dark atoms of air that now offer passage,
through the spirit and letter of our brief contract.
Persistent Witness
My attention cannot rest until the construction
crew replaces that section of gutter bent
at ninety degrees so a dowsing rod now
in reverse pouring the excess rain onto
the weedy earth from the third story even though
the entire subdivided structure is undergoing
renovation but unrenewed in its entirety
if no fresh channel, straight and totally attached
if not gleaming in crisp aluminum under the sun
and more important clouds that will deliver
the water to be directed in an innocuous
course eventually away from the old wood
of the eaves, another exception to the universal
replacement occurring daily, weekly, elsewhere
within and without, as my attention to this house
that will not be complete though my eyes have no
hands to fashion or voice to direct any drilling,
bolting, sawing, hauling so powerless like the bend
above to effect repair and completion
beyond my hope of that perfect fit and straight line
Natural Order
Squirrel erects himself into cobra double curve
in the middle of the at-this-moment deserted street,
menacing without venom any challenger
on the facing curb or rapt by some unseen charmer
and his mesmerizing flute whose notes must dissipate
soon into the neighbourhood air, after all only meant
for these furred ears straight up at attention
dispensing for this instant with the duty of gathering
the looming oaks’ fruit that passing vehicles
crunch to separate shell and meat, so this bushy-tail
must stop to gather in this vacant plain while the driver
on the perpendicular line gives ground and allows
the gaze and stance without disturbance even if the alert
capital “S” low on the surface is no legendary snake
flattening its pharaoh-worthy head, poised to strike
Spirit of the Lines
The white paint marking division
is now peeling and faint
lacking the former concision,
so begging for restraint
Upon the part of your neighbour
to accept “just about”
in stride, without need to belabour
or fume, ready to shout.
After all, they are just low lines
not stony-hearted walls
when breached demanding fines
and anger that appalls.
Redemption Granted
I dropped the cake
after purchasing it.
The sweet cylinder
hit concrete
with a muffled plop
after a drop I hadn’t
seen, but almost felt,
a sinking in my yeasty
spirit as I realized
my lack of care, my folly
with the gem of confection,
chocolate, berries, and cream
meant for her rather than me,
whose sweet tooth must have
been tingling at the impact’s
moment of crushed hope
and layered pastry, skill and sugar
wasted by the buyer of uncertain
hand—until rescued by charity—
from fallen feelings and low
self-worth sharing the floor
with said dessert—and a free
twin to the collapsed and compressed
treat now garbage, mush,
with which I now sallied
from the store, cradling
cautiously as if a babe
in my charge—of flesh or gold
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