A lotus can’t become words—life
bleeds out. Still I struggle
to engrave the water’s face, the lotic
Daylight speckles the orchard.
I long to pin this dragonfly down
& press her in a tome, but she defies all essay
of inchworm & scissors
to sass other worlds
within the known. Define this
to quell the itch.
α) I ramble through faded grasses at sunset, collecting night
on my bootlaces. Listen—the rush of the abandoned lot.
β) A whiff of oenanthic hooks.
Lopsided & ankyroid, the riverside moon
pours buttermilk over rusted cars.
γ) Alice drifts through tides of pumpkin bisque.
In time—in a trick of the light—she dissolves
into swarms of plankton as they linger, curious.
The mushroom balloons wider in the dark.
3 Seconds Pressed in a Book
Smile—a sign with teeth drowns in the plaza fountain.
Shimmering circles dim as pennies mimic the sun.
A soldier plays the violin on the corner, coat billowing—
she sails in a cardboard boat across the sidewalk.
The harbor is empty.