the cool sound of windchimes, big and small

cars whoosh by on the slick road, on to their destinations.
each one
some dangerously cling to the curves, pedal planted
some with the guttural, coughing squawk of an injured bohemith

i wonder about their contents

is he smoking a cigarette, listeing to old vocal jazz
is he a she, putting on her lipstick in the rearview
is she late, is she early,
What are her dreams?

Does she ever think about all the houses she drives past and the people inside them-
imagining an old man in a bath tub, lightbulb exposed
or lovers tangled on the floor, the door open
what's her favorite scent?
Does she like soup? I do have just enough for a second.

And as I dreamt of the ocean
sitting at my desk
in your run of the mill office space

the sea breeze and sea gulls
swept up the sour notes
from my run of the mill face

This is the song on the jukebox that I wanted
Somehow something black lunged came out when I pushed the button


my feet in the bubbles,
as tiny clams start
lifebent on their commonplace dig

I can feel your smile
your eyes on my troubles
as they wash way in the abyss

what was that thing you said,
about two weeks ago, by the bay?

“When all that’s left is witnessing
then who speaks the words that you say?”

This is the song on the jukebox that I wanted
Fireflies light up the skies in between us and nothing

Caught in the tide of a marvelous stride
I find myself brought to the edge

as dreams mix with reality and nothing is left to be said.

the folly of man
driven out into the snow by his own desire

If you were watching a movie of it all, you would plead with the hero, "don't go. be stronger"

The universe, though, with its infinite wisdom, ballances our yearnings.

You examine the wounds with your hands, and look towards the sky

There's no use cursing he who cut you, he's the same one who dressed you warm and sent you searching out there.



Go home. Kick off your boots.

close your eyes and stay by the fire .