home sale dream

in her pastel living room, accented with fur
pick up any ornament,
squirrel, skunk or baby bear
and it is an animal, sitting still in its skin

stripes, tails, ears
among the houseplants, performing as décor
she is tired of them now

Nye springs

listen carefully, he said
a rhythm has to beat somewhere in the music
but the water

overflows the pool and falls
divided overflows the stone
clearly in small arcs
falls white in foam

dream

Sometimes, and at the same time, an alongside child
is born from the first child’s left-over attributes
(It is always sleepy)
You don’t have to feed it, nor enroll it in school—
It’s an extra-curricular child.

proposal (for an art project?)

Take a truck carrying pipes
and fit them with reeds
Drive the highways, fluting

olympica

drove home from the station after midnight, happening upon
a pickup, haphazardly parked on the hill
and two young men ecstatic over their discovery—
below them, on a siding, bright and hot on the back of the train
the Olympic flame

being pulled unannounced, unknown through towns
on a special car, constructed to carry fire
blazing just for them, their personal flame

saw some cedar waxwings yesterday which reminded me

cedar waxwings
on the invisible staircases
between the pyracanthas and the oaks

masked popping berries
in the pyracantha's flames

shrill cries from the oak trees
necks craning, cheering the robbery
till the fire is extinguished

wing-storming past the house
a hard knock on the pane--
this one will not fly again

unlike the artist

nature never gets tiredpainting centers in her flowers
that’s not all she does, that’s not all
the details continue
to the microscope’s highest magnification

(nature presented each flower with an I
to paint its own center in)

jornaleros at the corner

passing all that standing and looking
it’s late
shading of eyes, craning of necks
kicking of curbs
passing all that hoping

viewpoint

The man in the wheelchair looks
over at the woman with the crippled hands
"How can she stand to live like this?"

all hens are redheads

the scrub jay by the garden gate
knows a bird when he sees one
lets the chicken walk right up to him
though all she's got left from molting
is one tail feather, behind

the chicken, red decorations on her face
her feet always dirty, from where she's been scratching

yesterday's me

A previous self cannot be trusted.
Otherwise, why am I revising these words?