a few day's rain

and the grass

and trees

pulse with green;

i'd imagine the

kaw

is beating fiercely,

but i haven't

whispered down

those banks in

awhile.

all the cheapened

similes

make me want

to fall in love

with the flow

in moving baptism

float, and end

up in lawrence,

like last summer

upstream,

i wrote a poem

about the

laundromat: and

how i wish i

left my plastic

bags on the side

walk, barefoot

returning home:

wet clothes weigh like

alive and green don't.

project:

to throw forward

from little thoughts

(click) by hopeful

incandescence

in dimness of the basement

onto an old sheet

(click)

we also used for

dreamful tents

and cloaks.

the sheet is

only beautiful

unfolded, becoming

when (soft)

taking shape from

your shoulders.

memory. the

photograph-flat

colors beckon taste

beckons want

reach for have

(if.)

at 3:53 a.m., my eyes

checked for

possibility

and wore out

kite strings

on a cloudy day

subtractive art:

absence freed

me from the

marble.

some

postmoderncollectiveconsciousness

offered me a very

fittinglyunarchetypalgnawing

w h i s p e r

at

truth/columns/being

but,

i've got

(inkrealenough

tobleedthrough

fourlayersofnapkin

toyieldto

waterandtea

puddledonthetable

tofoldupforlater

andfindinmypocket)

facts

right here.

a tease:

like when march

knew snow, and

cold married

blooms, who moved

to ground for the

rest of her life

and sky was

lonelier for

barely having

met her.

sunlight is real,

confirmed by

elms

' strong reach.)

your face caught

brightness with

ease

(al's lense grasped

our milli[ ]

seconds for a

semi-gloss

magazine)

which i hold

(we aren't dark-

room dreams)

today

(like taped in

my notebook)

emulsified

in me.

bird at night

fuselage

slipping through

black sky,

silver feathered-

(in the sun,

i was with you

city street

robin in the

elm tree)

so colored-

last dusk

more than mile

night and day

separates, so

where is

weighty,

proximity

so bright.

a

single

(white bloom)

blue sky:

the same

as the back

of my eyes

where all trees

grow.

if

spring

became

dark-skied

the same

for the back

of my eyes

where settled

snow.

if

nothing

came to

fill my (heart)

the same

for the back

of my eyes

where are no

blooms.

rivers run

fingers

made the bed

adam sleeps,

oratory

water tower

oak tree

progeny,

praising hands

sky, ground

you, i

no one knows

l one liness

after it rains.

nomenclature clothes

we're both skin and

bones, beneath

some weigh down,

heavy winter coats

others

warm your shoulders,

simply.

i'd sew you blankets,

if i had needles and

proper syntax to dance

about the fabric realities.

singing sought instead

with the aim to make

you

rent. every name

and own and earn

everything by

nothing.

most wonderful on all

paths, the lovely distraction:

flower in the grass

where glance lands like

bees, and

walk blooms halt,

yielding scent then

brightness- (fragile vials of

life which you wear

'round your neck, petals

sewn to your dress.)

where the tall

prism of trees, bending

light 'round their standing,

walk leaves pause

in the quiet fern leaf,

where at your feet

i lean-

under the canopy,

the foot-sure axis

sleeps in the sun,

and of digress dreams.

i swallowed the air

between cobbled steps,

sat at the feet of

santa maria del fiore,

an old friend.

she whispered perfect doubt

into my young-sure mind

of affairs between walls,

and the life in those of cells,

and that one is

thousands of years old

and the other is not.

so, i am always there

as sure as i folded up the map

and slipped it into

my coat's breast pocket,

as sure as my red blood

carried the same substance

she breathed. and youandi

is as true as campanile bells

calling to mass is dance

of things unseen and feet.