Sunday, September 27, 2020
Friday, September 11, 2020
Erupts in shocks of wheat
That peel away and fall back down.
Around and around it goes,
Dissipated mists replaced
By brackish storm drain runoff
Cycled by invisible mechanical pumps.
Yeah I know it’s fake,
That the water isn’t potable.
But it’s still water,
Dutifully following inscrutable orders.
I still see the morning orange glowering
Behind its arching apical spray.
And close up, down on the benches
Along the kitschy walkway,
The roar of the splashdown crash
Is arguably just as real,
When you close your eyes,
As the dawn Pacific surf.
Sunday, September 6, 2020
Space and time are curved.
Nothing real is ever really straight.
Saturday, September 5, 2020
I hear a smattering of applause from the leaves
As a cool evening breeze wends its way
Through the line of trees behind my house
As if to say: good enough, not bad at all.
But they’ve been clapping hard all summer
Turning themselves to the sun
Celebrating storms and sultry humidity,
Soaking up as much as they can.
Maybe they’re just tired now.
Maybe they’re just done.
They’d stand for an encore if they could
But they notice the chill as well as me.
Soon begins the yellowing senescence
The lovely forgetfulness just
For now they tremble in the trees.
I hear them even when the air goes dead.
You’d be a little fearful too,
In that moment when you know
The line is actually a circle
This is all projection, of course.
The leaves have always known.
Leaves don’t need the solace of summation.
Instead of projection I’ll write a poem
And say the leaves are just waving goodbye