Its starboard light winked once in the glass and —
the ship was gone from view.
On Receding Ice.
Neither air nor sea, but both at once, the foam
made its death among the plastic bottles
and cairns of whale bone.
Sine Wave.
Topsy as the roller coaster cresting Lunar Park Turvy as the combers that rolled by in the dark
SPACE.
Refuge of fled Olympians and earth-forsaking men. Where next, then, great Apollo? Where next, oh billionaires? I’d rather take the subway home— this earth was never theirs.
Clay Nation.
A spiral never centred spinning out the night the pot that’s never fired wobbling left to right.
When I write.
I am exalted— Venus, in her house of joy.
Ghost Train.
We march from the station noisy in our smart winter boots tromping up the ramp and spilling into the streets. I peel off early blossom-way walking and somehow the evening is the blue of early morning and its stretching scattered clouds are lit-up from below by the sun quickly dying. (Or does it rise again?) The air inside the gate is thick and laced with scent sweet and sharp and heady. It's the jonquils pushing up rising with the late-day morning sun.
Look.
Where as a child I dreamt I dug beneath the surface of the soil in the banks of salt-torn plantings beneath the kiosk selling tackle and ice-cream a trove of gold two-dollar coins five Buffalo Bills' worth (or more) a fortune in my fist found here beneath the scrubby undergrowth.
Another Train.
How is it that in this yet other house far from the old train lines wheels on track still echo through the windows and rumble through my mind?
Homecoming.
Each time a jolt— that wheel of stars that sprawling port this skyline slung with cranes this power-hungry system the faceless window-panes this smoke-drift haze this choking air this scraped and scrappy sky the electric promise of the city and the indifference of break-lights.
Magical: Day One 