what we treat it as
a hill so big it switches color when clouds push
armadillo red ember echo picnic
I dodder and I stray in crayfish streams
a man carrying a dirigible defense
the one we hand around is full
final and stifling, like a love or re-entry
the glove of Earth and staying seasonly
horse albatross table cloth sky
glass home pinball machine
visitation inertia, bear pawing at trash
acclimating
puff of fog, flash, resembler’s ring
string overflow feather piano and penny
our horses wander and field
a man carrying dirigibles over,
a hero as much as Kenny Rogers cries
on an airplane, about the alone
I ride trolley, trains and sky ferry bus
on a hollow rocket, I head forward by propulsion
to hold you as a soft packed strawberry
our love left, like a napkin on catered table
an embrace drawing of a yet to be
we cannot live in a world that does not distinguish
between the deep sea and our dropping off
as feathers mast our rhino sails
the overture above, expanding
bats creak the sky hero of what we rise,
we exchange keys
a brown coat and polishing tongue
we cannot accustom to disillusionment
satellites find and then we are nebulous
material only in the neighborhood
exchanged glasses
It’s been along time
we talked walking
you stayed peach and I parrot
there is no narrative to resolve
only what we make of trees
pursuing a squad car of questions with paper
pushing legs under clocks
photos that become indiscriminate in rain
we walked on both sides the river
what emerges is not clear
for a instance, the panther coats
illusion heart scenic mystery
crossed fence area before the Safeway moment
hand on a cold fish, mango in my pants
I doubt nothing more than my memory
this is not an Italo Calvino and Maya Angelou novel
wove in Mill City to hope
xerox hand will wave the wand
time, our arms
I am arranging the mane of a bus stop of rain
not a mystery of self escaping
as the world pretty much completes
stories on trains mirroring opposite location
rained on walk water
a sky missing no pieces
a rain maze, illusory and stable
the ghosts are heavy in spots
a forest is not only the trees seen
in a day with no home
a white dog loving its own for a night
_________________________________________
Tom Blood is a poet in Portland. He is the winner of the 2007 Oregon Book Award for poetry, and his work appears in rare realms.
