A concrete sidewalkkeeps my shoes clean,caps the world of earthworms,mud, and stones. It’s tiresomeurban decor lacks a heartbeat,offers not a hint of quartz or granite,has no humility and makes of mea stranger to the earth. I leaveno footprint to say that I was here.

I dare to care for what’s touchableon this crazy black-dog of a day.Flute music and fish for lunchmake a day count,not like a mixer’s hoardbut each hour golden,upwelling like buttercups,dandelions, tiger lilies.Wait, sit, stay–I am on the other end of the leashteaching loss to lie down at my heals.

I pray not to forget againthe nouns around me, flatas busted party balloonsafter the last guest leaves,leaving plates caked with frostingand not a word of thanks.Syllables leave their day jobs,jangle like a toy marimba,dance like drunken monkeys.Stick a pin in an onion,form an opinion.

Angry men ill-disguised as Natives dumped 342 chests of tea leavesinto Boston Harbor, and Sam Adams sent messages about taxesto England’s King George. No one invited the cod fish to a tea partyin what settlers called the Atlantic, which the fish called home.No one pretended that Natives drank tea, though they didwelcome codfish, clams, lobsters,…

A big white bird, high, alone,wide-winged, oh, if I could flyI would hear the air whisper,stitch old sights to new, rejoicefor pale wings in motion, butif I’d never seen a white birdwould I call this distant visionangelic, an omen, a sign,a blessing as it moves airabove me, trailing myth?And if the bird were black?Still, it…