Frail, time-warped seconds
Accumulate in drops of dew.
Sky sung seashells
string together drops of rain.
The necklace is moist, and circles
around my neck like a snake.
The old dog sleeps by the window
ready to bark at any passing ghost.
His eyes droop
like tired flowers
clinging, clinging to their final Sun.
My shrinking, shrapnel brain
bursts open
with green lightning.
It was not a ghost, but a volcano
that ran across the yard,
it’s molten roses turned the green grass
black, the sky,
bellowing, bellowing
like a hungry crocodile.
The days are piling up, knee high
in the mud, where the garden
used to be, before the gardener died.
I went to the thrift store
and bought a fistful of dust
that was once a rainbow.
The old socks are growing
eyes through the holes
in the cotton.
Watching my steps, they whisper to one another,
”Yeah he is going nowhere.”
The big one says, “Well of course, that’s where he was born.”
My coffee was hot, like sipping
On the Sun’s blood.
The morning was loaded
with big clouds, a peach sunrise, and the smell
of freshly mowed grass.
All the landscapers with their weed eaters
buzzed around
like diligent little bees,
until noon, when they turned
to puddles of sweat.
On the side of the road
two furious crows
fought over
the remaining
piece of moonlight.