Saturday, March 26, 2016

Looks Like Rain

Black coffee in a paper cup
falls into a dialogue with a century of waste.

Get ready to bawl out the horizon
on its little birthday. Squeeze me

in hindsight screwed to the wall.

A good price for a calm conclusion
enters through the ear then,

scaring off a fresh carom of ball;

days fly deftly as a tossed milk pouch
my alma mater dramatized.

These images practice what no one preaches
too carefully, or at all—

I have only two hands on earth;
the rest are fatal flaws in the city,

a glorious production no one comes to see.

In time a street you once put trust in
reveals itself into a deep sleep,

hard of hearing, the hardest so far.

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