Towards the City

fleeting from a train,

eye-poking spring

trees, innumerable leaves

and fuzzy humans, blurring back.

Perhaps they’re talking to each other,

perhaps uninterested, perhaps alone,

lonely but they’re flying, momentary,

someplace else altogether.

Friendly Lord's Prayer

Spirit of a treetop

sweeping through a tiny room;

come in, sit yourself down,

so we can have some little time.

What mischief can we conjure?

What omelets to eat?

What mirrors to look into?

What major chords to sing to?

Until this fiery day has turned – complete.

This morning

I parted from her,
met him, and(longing for her)
talked to her,   not him.