Folds of Paper
A workman’s glove
trampled, tattered
abandoned on the sidewalk.
Pointing to the sky.
The index finger
signals: look up.
The great blue,
A half moon between wires,
A plane inching.
Why reveal the obvious
to a wandering man seeking
answers? Are they there
hidden like words beneath
the folds of paper? Hidden in
the air, or from that beyond?
Does the glove point to the flow
pushing clouds and guiding
flapless birds in search of meat,
or to the tale of a God
massaging our spirits
through sparking universes?
Does it point suggesting
that Myles may be skating
atop the O-ZONE,
or as a reminder that emptiness
is a benign escape
as gentle as the breath to whisper it.
How Not Talking Talks
Arcing… a continuous firefly tunnel
while riding the nighttime river trail.
Bullfrogs vibrating the air in musing croaks.
Moths making suicide attempts at our bike lamps.
The moon playing hide-and-seek
between cloud and canopy breaks.
Slipping passed the humid air,
greasy, like two bullfrogs fighting
with their restricted bubble throats,
it cooled my scalp like the fan
my father’s parents had above their bed…
always blowing fierce.
A bell tower performing a classic…
the half/hour striking
thick like dried oil paints…
music breaking silent beauties.
Winter Break
Summer nears its end.
Laying in the cubbyhole
of Cincinnati’s first water-
treatment facility,
those active at lunch
run and walk the river trail,
his head propped
against historic stone.
Aged evergreens
cast a thick shadow.
As leaves and grasses
dry to crunchier foods,
the frequenting grasshoppers
grasp coarse building bricks…
I forgot their emergence
signifies Autumn’s jaw
stirring to growl.
The man in the cubby
poked at one
wishing he had wing
enough to find shelter
before Winter breaks him.