gulls

 
gull wings at dawn.   slow milk rings

in the sky.   for many hours their cries

drew out my listening.   now

a silent inhalation till dawn again.

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Shadow

Under this book a shadow is.
Under this book a shadow contains
everything the book is not.

Like night is not day,
and you think you see, but don’t.

Likewise possible is more than meaning is.
Like the bottom of the sea,
like the shadow of a tree.
Meaning was never what is, is about.

Everywhere book does go,
shadow does too.   Stars and moons
and owls watching mice, about
like that is the story ladled out.

Not indifferent yet more willing than
any reason we do common call kin.

Between your lips a shadow is.

third street

     being a postcard from home
 
 
who would live in such a place
but it was pretty normal then.
lots and lots of years ago.

Third Street.   the town was only
a little larger than third.

window in the front, that’s me.
when the town slept I’d put my
cheek onto the window screen.

feel.   be both outside and in.
the room was only two long strides
across, so not a leap to imagine
outside being inside too,

or the mother possum gnawing
beneath my sleeping floor.

termites said the floors tasted good.

the street out front was harvest
broad and strong.   Greyhound buses
used it to circle round.

the smell of diesel was an
aroma of adventure to me.

front door with a skeleton key.
back door, hook and eye, and how
I burgled in when my key was gone.

no bathroom when the house was built.
later they added one. no insulation
so outdoor weather took residence.

clothes off, to shower, then dry
and gone in five minutes flat.

in time ivy came to adore the
front porch.

universal constant

       in some rural cultures you wear a face mask
       backside of your head because you seldom
       know when a tiger is about.

 
borne without limits you live
in-between face and unseen.

joy is no limit, nor loneliness;
intention is no limit, nor fear;
tenderness is no limit, nor serenity.

the true nature of a thing is
in everything you don’t see of it.

each kiss forgiven its mark.

joy is what’s to be.

swimming

 
says the wind       ¿who are you?

the low round green-haired maple,
her tresses bobbing as a question would

question-and-response moving swift,
moving faster than eyes can see

no change, hand to hand

¿who are you?       says the wind

I am doing you, is who I am.

here, taste this

 
this isn’t the poem you were
looking for.

this poem is ill-kept,
ill-mannered, temperamental at best.
this poem hasn’t eaten for days!

that glint in the eye shouldn’t be
mistaken for affectionate wisdom
except as it applies to a dinner plate.

are you someone good to eat?

some truth is best understood from
a distance generously paced away.

don’t tempt with rosebud fingertips
giggling through a wire fence.

sampling is mandatory here.