Inside

Inside is a redness outside is dust.  Inside is a bird only a bird can make that sound.

Needle

In between the feather and the leaf is the drifting needle.  It is tender and true.

Nothing Pretty

Dangerous and fainting.  A large box is customary.

Milk

If the name is something white then the inside is burning.  Oh, burn!  Better that you love.

Aim

Here, a yellow bird.  Here, waiting and humming and waiting. Wind, take these sails and let them touch.

Man

Anger and bile and fingers it is like weaving.

Outside

Outside is a branch nothing rests upon.

Ruined by having read
too much philosophy I board
the tram and head downtown.
It isn’t much, I think.  Sitting
on this moving rectangle,
moving downstream with a
bunch of who-knows-whats all
of us just sitting blankly staring,
it isn’t much to take when you’ve
just come from God knows where,
her eyes and no it isn’t hard
at most it’s soft, rather soft
sitting waiting for the tram to move
on

Tram traffic ahead you will be
moving shortly, they tell you and
if only you had a pretzel stick to
munch at the first time I felt
this peculiar feeling in my side
I was sitting in a park by
some trees, on a sloping hill,
sloping towards the water in the
sun I sat and children biked
down the sloping concrete and
the grass all swayed and hustled,
a park full of people sitting being
reading each other in the soft
fluorescent glow of sunbaked summer,
that was when the sensation of
eternity first beckoned in the
crevice above my left hip, I
felt it like a child feels love
and it’s been there ever since
and even now, waiting, for her,
for the tram to move, I wonder
if it will ever go away….
awe