Low cirrocumulus clouds in the west.
War in the east.

Lift teabag from cup.
Add milk.  Ask if it is happiness

or pleasure you prefer.
Watch the storm churn to the surface.

Shadows gather in the valley below.
To count them is to know their many shapes

cannot be counted.
They must be numbered among.
 



Little patches of grass disappear
in the jaws of lusty squirrels

who slip into the spruce.
Cars collapse into parts.

Spring dissolves into late spring,
the kitten into the cat.  

A tray of drinks departs from the buffet
and voila! the party's over.  

All that's left are some pickles
and a sprig of wilting

parsley on the rug.  Day turns sideways
and wanders off into dusk.  

When I think of all those
gong-tormented Mesozioc seas

I feel a ripple of extinction
and blow a smoke ring through the trees.

Soon there will be nothing left here but sky.
When I think about the fact

I am not thinking of you
it is a new way of thinking about you.




 
To be small among voices.
To wear the black hat.
To kneel in the shavings.
To speak of the nameless blue flowers.
To eat them.
To retreat to the torn red interior.
To have heard the low engines approaching.
To button.  
To hammer.  
To have.  To have not.
To have sat by the sea and been rewarded with a pair of glinting wings.
To have held out for more.
To have had it.
To have held out for less.