the sound...
of water trickling lightly over the edge of a small rock
into the belly of a languid stream
in a forest of ferns and chop-suey
misted by far-away rains, in far-away lands
twisted by the guilt of men who came before
hauled in boats across oceans
time stuffed in pockets, lost and forgotten
swallowed by couches in plush hotel lobbies
entranced by the motion of the ceiling fan
like a merry-go-round in suspension
a carnival ride for the dust and stale air
and drinks with no ice that go down like plasma
a name, and a face, and a country
and a silky wide brim on your hat
while days turn to nights turn to mountains
turn in like the slumbering winter
so sleep, but arise with conviction
and challenge the words of the day
and the thoughts of the wise
and the ramblings of the artificial muses
reeling down main street on one good leg, one bad
like a life taker
like a man sent from deviant towns
but keep in mind that sound
keep in mind the stream
keep in mind the gentle, most gentle
rains you have ever felt.

Driving north on Mills into Winter Park,
taking serious drags while the road unfolds
before me, I pull the plug on fantasy
and embrace the landscape’s brilliant golds

and greens. The things that mean so much to me
whistle out the windows into the wind,
and where the wind dies, they are hoisted upon
the biceps of ethereal clouds, strong men

of freak shows. Across the shimmering lake
the hospital upon its banks emits fumes,
leftover inhalant anesthetics
which violate the atmosphere, intrude

upon my air vents. Captivated I
transcend the railroad tracks, weightless, working
the wheel with minimal effort past forms,
structures, lines and shapes and angles which bring

perfect composition to the evening;
past museums, churches, record stores
and rainbow heads. Each form defines
for me the moment, each line underscores

the damp air upon my face, the smart sting
of a bullwhip wind. In fading light I see
the whole expanse at once, void of human
presence, just the lake, the buildings, the trees.

He takes his coffee differently,
more sugar than before,
and grows impatient in long lines.

He turns down window seats on planes,
just doesn’t want to see
the clouds and wind that swiftly pass.

He orders take-out now
and hurries in and out,
and shields his head from the rain with his sleeve,
and drinks far more wine
than he used to,
even buys two bottles at a time.

And in songs he finds different meanings,
hears different voices, responds as if
they speak to him in confidence,
just the two of them.

When he wakes the morning cold
is bitter, much more bitter now,
with such merciless bite,
relentless and basil-breathed
with not a ray of light.

And when, at night, the rain rattles at his windows,
it is such a welcome sign, it is such a blessing,
breaking the sturdy silence like a prize fighter,
creating quite the right amount of clamor,
that he forgets there’s not another
body breathing next to him.