I control nothing.
This morning the past walked by my bedroom window on stilts.
When I close my eyes, the sky is green.
I’ve written Van Gogh’s ghost about crows in my yard.
I’m a fan of color.
My head aches like a symphony orchestra in a tin cup.
Bronze butterflies flutter in a wind of wayward kisses.
Construction crews dig for a way out in the streets.
There is too much news.
Time faints on a bank of magenta clouds.
I might be part of a text missing a pair of red shoelaces.
I heard a newly discovered planet has volcanic hiccups.
Forgive me for not following rules for building
a clay replica of the ego hailing a taxi.
I’m lost in a tailspin of beauty.
Who is the past?
Now the whine of machines in the flowerless air.
It is a fall of dying leaves,
and I reside in the mind
of what escapes me.