From here, in what could be
described as reality wound
twice around ridiculousness,
I stand guard to ensure that
the stillness is not disrupted;

making certain the ponds are
ripple-free and that the stars,
often ensnared in sedentary
wisps of chimney-siphoned
smoke, remain stationary.

On the occasions when I leave
my post to patrol the area
it is hard not to fall under
the tutelage of tranquility,
become a pupil of plateaus:

a student of the statuesque.
It is in these moments of learning
the stoic scenery divulges all
its secrets— too bad I’m such
a slow learner; always moving.

I cannot recall whether the
thought came to me while in
this speakeasy or that cabaret--
whether I was hammering
harpsichord keys,
giving liquor-crammed credenzas
shakedowns,
or mainlining metronomes
to maintain my pulse’s rhythm.

Nor can I confirm the time of day
such a thing rose to my attention.
Perhaps it was around noon;
when forests are festooned in fire,
when brightness is merely
protocol--
Then again, it could have occurred
around dusk: conceived within
heightened shadows…

While your sepulcher was
slovenly stuffed with taxidermal dirt
I looked up to see a hawk
toting clouds in its talons; dragging sky
behind it wherever it went,
saving a stratus as a wispy souvenir.

You are gone but you’ve
been here whether I have noticed or
not; camouflaged as the
crackling in a campfire, disguised as
daylight— Like a hawk
carrying clouds, I have carried you.

The town was an unfinished painting with its seaside cottages lacking roofs,
skyline left blank, and shriveled-orchid sidewalks not yet dry.

Many doggy paddled through debris; soused in steely stalks and
stringent smells, searching for the outlines of drowned relatives.

It was a mystery as to when the brush, chocked-full of productive paint,
would be reapplied to mop up the emptiness and finish what it started.