The Weekly Commuter

In the new grass
a cat left his nap,
a sleep shape
where the stems
lie flat.
A naturalist, I collect
naps, but so does the rain
the clouds are threatening
and I don’t mind
giving in
to Spring.

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awaiting rain
night descends without stars
deserted streets in winter

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Under the hayflower
falling, we found her
seated, selling woven stuffs
in skirt relief
(delicate bird-lice
wax left
besting indigo bleeds).
Patterns, with the needs
of the wearer,
recede. Under the hayflower
falling, she felt
the fabric
folklore, soft
on the tops
of her knees, her feet,
light as lighting the morning
fire’s footfalls, dyed
vast shades of dawn,
twice as deep.

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Any number of mounted bells
may ring,
unaware of the labor
their summons
foretell (a peal insists
as well as anything
sweet sounds
may sing
on behalf
of meaner meanings).

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Little finger
of a moat
protect one side of this city
from another, neither better
for this strip of bay water.
One freeway
to tuck
under the other:
mother daughter,
shy toddler
of an on-ramp.
A lap of wet clothes
and a bottle,
a tramp and a backpack gang
tagging the insides
of factories.
They leave they’ll leave eventually.
Silt, settling
in your belly,
melting trench songs
men sang
in the days of industry
will fill you […]

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The future pales
to lavender
the way sunsets do,
the edge of the earth
the door
day departs through.
Shifting hearts, like low
dunes, still warm
with afternoon,
welcome night, unfixed
as new-sown stars.

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In need of a cloud
to carry us –
the kind that keep
a hold and move
like the wide world, so
imperceptibly slow,
past planets small
as stars, with the earth
so far below somehow
life stills,
the swirls of white
on blue
obscuring the shapes
of landmasses
we learned in school.

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The effort, the deep down-hinge of wings
a sea sigh
we feel
as the osprey rise
ever higher, into thinner
atmospheres, and
we can’t remember, sand
in the corners of our eyes.

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Night and herons pass
between trees,
the intermittent bus,
with its dim
foci, approaching.
Home, by unfamiliar
roads, in the clearing
the low moon
shows. Routine
passengers drift
near sleep. Alert
to passing time, I am
awake with the wait.

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In hammocks you collect
ceilings, my hairweight
household (especially us
sigh gnats – littlemouthed
to sound
to us
like much). All thin fingers,
you spin wooly air
nets – not so high,
not quite as carefully,
whine lazy passersby –
the cat, a sound wave,
a broom, the usual roomful
of interested
in the day to day, the way
webs take influence easily.

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