...and they're off...

massed head Saturday in May

sometimes

the other side

of the tracks

is where

the morning

will wander

milk filtering

bright greens

in angle angels

of Sun

over the slate roofs

across the street

I get lost in thoughts

of wide shallow seas

long kelp algebra

long penances

bow palm prayer

bow palm prayer

I swear to god

I won't ever do it again

and pick apart a part of myself

that can be hidden

with what I wear

these sumptuous

early May mornings

in the eastern mountains

of North America

take hold of you

like no others do

each return scent

of insects and the spaces

in between them

are wanting you

and your soul's material

for pocket ballast

I may always be

a window shopper

a pill popper

a pot smoking grenadier

riffing for light patterns

inside joyful accidents

cups of cheer shared

emotion bared unexpectedly

perhaps in mailed box surprises

that drop a person to one knee

saying stop time

will you marry me

to this moment

call me part memory

and part collective consciousness

tell nostalgia to stay away

the bingo halls are harking

for light bulb popping sounds

barking chance after chance

fixing science to the ground

rooting in the clay

dry crack packaging

and seams, sewn where

the deft ghost ships

slip behind flying buttresses

so you only see

a floating head

a talking me

today is

a magic

numbered day

a four leg day

a day of smelling newspaper

with a thirst

for the promise

Summer brings

I hear the wind

talking between

lilt and lift

saying to me

take sail

journey to here, poet

you are a jaunted man

you are a junkie

for sensory perception

as you flip the jib

to remember faces

and forget the names

you’ll get clear passage

in poems

a lighthouse

speaks with

in order

to lower

the odds

against you

EJR ©