he long turn of my dream the future still an egg
the sound of my neighbor’s shower morning cool
a blur of fan blades the dog star rises
crumbling brick we never got a good look at the monster
chill of air conditioning a dream of many spiders
another grey hair in the deep corridors of clouds
the orchid slowly grows again the heat from my laptop
the river’s flow and rush Whitman’s grass
her sigh and crickets on the cool breeze
the full pink moon drops into the dawn of a bad habit
midsummer uphill both ways
for each spice I use the catbird finds a new voice
waiting for the fan to pass again the carpet too red
sugar in the breeze I dissolve into stars
a band-aid stuck to the cracked pavement the heat
summer clouds the bright white pages of the book I didn’t read
slow turns of black wings alone in all this sky
severe storm warning I carefully fold the morning
spent my days traveling time and the mockingbird
under my fingernails the unending song of clouds
even though I wrote it down the butterfly stays
the air conditioner drips onto my sleepless eyes
I cough the scent of clover in the cool morning
the pill I have to swallow at twilight sparrows still chirping
so many colorful feathers cling to the crushed bones
waves break beneath my skin the beginning of fire
banking hard to chase a crow training wheels come off
on the rough soil of the sea so many words corrode
a few petals hanging on the game I wanted to play
fine rain a new post code in the city of the dead
sticky heat my soles black with mulberries
September cobwebs in the kettle
between dusty syllables light from ancient stars
what is still allowed among the soft curves of cloud
a week of travel over my leaky sink in the setting sun
a row of birds still in the sun before the dark hills
my neighbor rattles his lock and leaves thunder
sun gleams off car horns and chlorine in the breeze
no reception at dawn I slowly embrace an unwanted freedom
almost bent in half on the lawn an old woman eats a peach
letting go it swims to the deepest part of the river
deep in the bones of my toes the wedding songs of toads
the sound of gulls bisects the awkward love triangle
after restless sleep the creaking needs of birds nearby
woken by my moan as wide as the moon
just enough of a push the crane soars over the treetops
hands across his chest he worries about wealth old squirrel
summer half over the fountain sparkles with pennies
softly from deep inside the fog the voice that wants me dead
the moving van moves a sweetness remembering summer
alone a bird I’ve never seen looks at me the same way
thin white skin of rain the puzzle back in the drawer
the squirrel narrowly escapes the wheel in my mind
numbers stop making sense the pops and whirrs of a starling
waiting for the miracle wheat flies over the ocean
other animals 