Daffodil cups, intense yellow, trading sun.
The house, a main character, gives away its chimney, porch light, stairs.
The ceilings are filled with mourning doves, twitching pigeons.
At night the cello becomes human.
I had missed him, but the space he left grew wings.
Love is a music that bursts.
We are sorry for the delay of sentences meandering absurd fictions.
When you return, do so full-heartedly, so the falling city can gather wind.
Wing after wing tracing sky through fallout, brambles, and made-up magic.
Tell us something about the glass chariot sure to shatter sky when day crashes night.
How odd the poem keeps going without the conductor.
The trains have derailed in the boy’s basement room.
Out of nowhere, an army and makeshift barricade.
The bombing isn’t as loud on TV.
Dreams still appear truculent.
Don’t stare at the sun holding your worn-out suitcase of beliefs.
Things will go easier this way.