words were poems first

what do you call a circular flourish in the air?     a bird

what do you call yellow and pink and blue?      dawn, maybe dusk

what do you call ten fingers like a cup?     finding your face

what do you call a combustable memory, then none?     a flame

what do you call a river between sky and land?     rain

what do you call the sky upside down?     a bowl

what do you call an idyll stroll from the west?     zephyr

what do you call a wrinkle in the sky?     summit

what do you call one eye open, one eye closed?     a question mark

what do you call a boy born from a peach?     Momotaro

what do you call room enough for one more?     bench

what do you call how earth sees your face?     bare feet

what do you call a mountain going home?     mud

what do you call hunger revealed?     spoon

what do you call the shadow on your face?     lips
 
 
 
 
Fair is fair.   The blog so christened, then shouldn’t it
contain a poem of its own kins sake name?

 
 
 

rocket at dusk

vision gets intimate with only a half-evenings blush.

standing on the porch looking south.   there.   you see?   half a block
over, what you could easy do in bare feet.   round past the white wood
trim shed in back, an open yard, no fence, just imaginary lines.
there.   the pocket market and gas.   Bill’s.

neon brights in the half-dusk-dark.   a yellow billboard with red ink
letters.   the door a shadow indent.   behind, silhouette trees make
the horizon seem high above the conjured water line.

there’s a rocket in my backyard sky.

tonight we’re going to the moon.   count my toes.   leap that far.

tonight we’ve a thin white feather and red tail shaped like wind.

we are leaning into sky.

moon & me will be in the same sentence soon.

breathless life.   was it the same before?

moving.   moving fast.   here we go.

hold my hand.
 
 
 
 

 
one from a gathering of personal snapshots, taken by residents, of shuttle-craft launches. I am immersed within by their ordinary intimacy of a shared exceptional experience.

counting, ones

do you hear? one wall plus more than three and a roof within.
that’s how it arrives. inside first.

rain, rain.

many voices offer names. none are taken home. instead,
willow cloud petal thirst. bright and bright.

meaning less. more free.

these received are your face in all the shades of light and sleep.
oh stillness beside. here, these hands.

drink, drink.

two palms will rend the drought. and you, you within.