Poems August Running

Walkway

a run along the walkway
in the mist
in the gauzy night
without any reverie
no aside
no you know
I know
remember when
that's why
there's not a why that
is integrated
it is why
proximity
grey ghost car
following in the pane
the bird flying to
the red bird window
strands of weave
of lines
meet a wispy cloud all blue
and a goldfinch
and owls at night
one or two in the fall
before winter
nothing hollow now
a gleam of silver
chrome in the afternoon sun
a day
that doesn't know john
and his afternoons
at the cloud window
bright shine
reflecting the ends of the leaves and branches
clustered together
white leaves on the green
john is full time
when he is around
he was all along
yellow drapes
the cold rain
and enough space for two
and enough time for your friends to sit
in a corner and talk
into the evening
in a small room
on a cold day
in the spring

brown and white bird
back from his long winter
took that long to arrive
that is for the times
when they are going by

I saw the gulls yesterday for the first time
it was the thirtieth of june
and now it is july
I haven't seen them since november
They were company all summer at the water
with the goldfinch and the crow and the hawk
latticework
along the outside
when it is a cold year
in a cold region.

evening in the mist
with lights
and white and yellow spots
twin lights
scary walk from door to door
with red geraniums a bright pink
along the walkway now and no picture
this time
to see a weekend
and john is home again
every year he is a year out
another wisp of cloud
chasing him in the rain
in the bright blue summer wind

a little room in the dark
in the sun window
cool in summer
and cool in winter
what kind of a cover
for the winter
another year without a home
in a world that is like a home
without that reminder of why
windows open with the screens
a placard set on the sill
silver boxes
and red-stitched decor

in the snow
a glacier of ice
and wet from the lake
the great lake

write a review of the day
in the breeze with the grey
and the orange swirls
of a grove
a cluster
a pillbox cloud with grey in the center
when there's a year
without any event
no incident
nothing that makes life different
except
john again
at the window box
east for months on end
at a time
life a book
on a shelf
at the end

and when the grey ladders call up
then what wind
blows the cord
the twine
the rope
for the banner mast
reflecting motion
a move in sliver
a windowpane of three
without a crow
a grackle
or even a thrush
or sparrow
calling for daytime
from the orange rust

another pillowcase
another bedstand
another neighbor
another day
in the july sun
waiting for john

your friends were all sold on ideas
I was too
it is time
when you count it
save yourself
from all of the lines

all of the grey and the
days in the damp
and the cold
now it is sun
and a half a warm red brick
a half in maroon
what time
then did another typewriter in the afternoon
and what would I have said
if I hadn't read the essay
seen the book
seen the paper
seen the typeface
and the scope of the end

I would have said to the moment
find or find
is all after not
now, is that true?
where is not an after
that is of a room with paper and lines
another walk down the road
john can sit by the drapes and window worlds
and then he could talk for an
evening or be silent
and let his friends talk
he could think and formulate
and have ambition
for himself
that is also
an evening