The deep twinkle of carbonation flow
out over the vast midnight sea, frosting
The edge of tall, round glass; some eyes perceive
this as the end of everything.

I sit in an old Adirondack chair, painted red,
beer in hand, not more than thirty feet
from my childhood bedroom, where green glowing
plastic wannabes mocked me in the dark.
my head falls backward over the wooden lip
and I sip in wonder; the stars I used to know

Purple wildflowers sprinkle through the yard
in an act of resistance alongside tufts
of Kentucky bluegrass; red tulips flow
from under fences, and that old pear tree, who’s
rose-colored petals pour down onto the
reservoir of weeds, stands a centerpiece
in a quarter-lot oasis

I cut the grass canopy quietly,
with an electric lawn mower— a subtler weapon
than the gas-powered monsters I had known before,
and I notice the gate in the fence no longer shuts,
snagged on newly settled soil

Brand-new pressure-treated
wooden deck bows and browns quickly in its toddler years,
The steps squeak as I ascend from my chore
the teal door droops in its hinges
just enough to let the ants in

some days Hope is a “push” door pulled, maybe
an impossible curtain, the glass wall
who becomes the palate for some face made;
it’s both the impossible force and the
immovable object combined.
                                                      when
the unforeseeable consummates an
afternoon, the darkness of an unknown
greater in might than Atlas himself, grasps
ahold of the world and shakes it up good
and frothy, it’s nearly impossible
to keep some semblance of sane in the back
of my mind.
                        and When my Atlaean
might falls just this side of able to lift
the load, When a single tear, a feather,
a cry inhibits my ability
to carry the weight of this crumble, I,
in my insufficient scramble, begin
to feel smaller than usual. Feeble,
inconsequential and so overlooked;
veiled by lofty aspirations, I seek
a solution where none can be hidden.
I look to be the keeper of unkept.

Helios, Selene and their grand chariots passing slowly by one another
like a star-crossed interstellar meet-cute,
Jesus sits in the row behind mine,
chuckles to himself and walks off into the distance

I didn’t buy the glasses I heard about on the news,
I didn’t drive the hour and a half into totality;
I didn’t even know how to watch. I was worlds away

As the minutes crept closer,
I sat in the airport, satisfied with my week in ignorance
as I watch a young family pass around that Cheerio’s box
they’d brought with them through security
to get a glimpse of a once-in-a-lifetime
happenstance— right place at the right time

One pair of glasses, one Cheerio’s box, and turns taken
To see a charcoal moon with a golden halo. I sat and read
As they pressed faces to the glass

from toilet seats the lines begin to write
themselves— or as equal tempered pillow case
rebounds some dreams, or often as soft white

egg peaks form in mixing bowls (a sure base
on which to form something special), then sneak
complete from the oven, seeking your grace

while resting below cabinets of teak.
the process reconciles quite like the round
of revolving doors, rumbling their unique

earthen hum, and run some marvelous sound—
or you notice, of all days, the sun today
pours through the window and onto the ground

in write-themselves waves of mauve and chambray;
at times, the little things happen that way.

pocket thoughts jangle around in my left-hand— well, pocket—
next to richer, crisper (or maybe even crinkled) concepts which
pad leather to cease incessant creasing, are held in high regard,
and aren’t so easily chucked in the dish on my dresser in the evening.
I don’t tally them much, but I know they’re always with me

kept short,
tossed around,
softened by pocket lint and pocketing
‘til I let them go
or lose them…

I have a special place for pennies;
when they’re portraits’ side down, concrete-clad,
I may spend the time to steal them from the road,
repossessed, into my reserve they plop (for later inspiration)