Sunday, April 12, 2020


my street is a party
walking towards the mountain
everyone’s home
the birds too
yelling at nightfall

woke up from   big
party/no memory
thought I should write it all out
on one of our brown paper towels
driving the big van 
in the   little garden

flooded with the gray reality of circles
(birds then  and now)

the other night of
heavy blankets
that old bedroom
but dank and wet
with pear dessert 

clocking weird
pouring out
the closed window
my own heart beat
is too much
don’t know where
to put my hand

a star

the whole pretty 
hand thing 

and again