Back in the poesis again




The relationship between f-stop and depth of field


All this anger swirling up from the planet,

an orbital cloud of dark debris, a hazard

for spy satellites and GPS, a spinning swarm

slowly groomed by gravity

into a disk.  Spokes of light

play across the revolving wafer

ice and dust and break into waves

of color, the Earth with a ring

to rival Saturn’s, traveling through time to a distant

telescope through which a child’s mind opens.




Shimmering through blind eyes


The red-winged blackbird

watched from the apex

of the tallest pine

the sun an hour from setting.

Looking west the blackbird

watched and fussed

and occasionally sang a brief burst.

The sun an hour from setting

the blackbird launched herself

on a sweeping glide

swallowing the fallow fields

and thickets already fallen in shadow.




Before or after, there is…


No pictures on the walls,

the clutter of a mind easily contained

in two rooms in two tones

of beige, a border of brown, a carpet that won’t

show stains, two flights up

trapping the heat of summer,

a playful time down below,

muscles cars on the street

pausing for a passing siren

whipping a sapling in a circle

of mulch to which a single sparrow

sings at dawn, or perhaps sings

to the ceiling light on a pull string

shining against darkness of a window

floating through milky mists of cloud.


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