it drifts through the sky
unnoticed just one feather
a thin blade of gray and white
severing dreams strung across the alley
with the edge of its fall
those below turn in brief restlessness
and when they walk the streets
finding the colors of their night
thrown into the art of a wall
or pasted with the signs upon a pole
leaving them vaguely anxious and uneasy
without knowing why
the bird wheels and turns overhead
in a rooftop garden a person sits reading
every word that I write appearing
a ghostly flash across their screen
a momentary digital overlay not even noticed
until years later they find themselves
remembering these poems as their own
inscribed into the wrinkles of their flesh
etched into their every bone
I travel the desolate highways
that run through the smallest towns
to transform for a minute into Main Street
then fade back into their nondescript route
the uncertain focus of dirty headlights
are the only shine in the night
the moon and the stars absenting themselves
from the unrelenting dreariness
lest they too turn drab with grime
or get tangled in the rusted barbed wire
hanging from an abandoned fence
the smoke from a cigarette drifts from the car window
and gas station coffee stains the vinyl seat
as I drive
I did not want to look back
and say with regret
that I never walked in the rain
too afraid that the water on my face
would remind me of tears
and I would cry in sorrow
that I never stood in the wind
too fearful that the buffets on my limbs
would feel like punches
and I would collapse from their hit
that I never moved within the fog
too frightened that the murk around me
would become like a nightmare
and I would never emerge
so I have made certain to do these
and more
I’ve not looked enough at this stubborn mind
that throws a self like a shadow against any possible wall
that chases after every shiny thing
not seeing its own tawdry glitter spinning in a mirrored disco
that imagines it is the sun and moon
rather than a distorted reflection in some temporary puddle
I’ve not sat enough in the quiet opportunity
and just let myself observe this weather
the changes in the sky and sea
the shriek of the gulls and the howl of the wind
the vast spacious silence
we waited as children
time draped carelessly over our shoulders
so lightly that we did not care
we could find another hour or two or three
hanging warm from the sun
on the line stretched out back
we waited as adults
time crammed into backpacks and bags
heavier now but still unregarded
we’d grab spare minutes along with coffee
whenever we needed extra
we waited as elders
time spread across the table
weighty memories of things that never happened at all
broken pieces of too many jigsaw lifetimes
that trembling hands could not fit together
we died and there was an end to waiting
the pavement is kind enough
to receive a foot step a falling body
the muttered words the loud screams
the mingled incoherence of the street
no judgment given nor any quarter
equal treatment extended to all
a lifelong student of the hard thing
I would become concrete
the stone in the street asks
why do you choose this path
and I answer
when there is no destination
any road will take you there
furthermore say
why do you rest on this pavement
no reply so I pick it up
leave it somewhere along the way
on a windowsill or a bench
there to have different conversations
when the moment hangs so heavy
there right there in front
unexpected after a turn up a street
so that you remember the weight of time
and when you first felt its pressure
again and again these encounters
seemingly stochastic but you know better
look up at the derelict casements
and cracked glass windowpanes
the peeling impermanent glory of ordinary passage
the gritty testament to the beauty of wearing down
with their comfort walk on and take care
to step on each spider-webbed crack in the sidewalk
