Is it the bird’s rush
or do the clouds dance?
The surface is frosted glass.
Listen! The sounds are building their bridge in the lunar park;
between yesterday and later, from words to frou-frous. The sounds take
their places – in the water, on trees; recorded forever in space as
radio waves. We have the ability not to listen. But if we listen we do
not have to hear.
The city’s getting taller.
Yellows flow with the boat,
birds hit windows.
This city loves its clouds, but clouds aren’t the bad guy in this life
story. Neither is the sun, even though it takes days to break through.
Does the sun’s smile have a sound?
Stained glass love is restored
waiting for the wind’s tune.
Paper ships flutter on roofs.