Unlikely They're Tomatoes

or a locomotive steaming through Siberia 
to the nearest broom closet in back of 
the taxidermist shop, where dusty bison 
stand their ground, ignoring the walls 
of graffiti more times than not, they 
mistake targets for balloons with a fear
of flying, drifting above the courthouses
or lush green meadows going down on one
knee then reappearing months later shackled 
to a defense lawyer or a motorcycle as a 
loudspeaker, the radio might as well be a 
swamp with a sign saying rooms for rent 
near the tunnel of love where all the exit
signs have been removed emerging shortly 
into a light drizzle or dazzle of sodium 
lights in a car park or shopping mall 
where I'd steal the blasted cart in a 
heartbeat if only it'd fit into this
tiny compact of a trunk and not rattle.

"Use Other Entrance" Sonnet

Nothing but words. Noting the 
ticking clock. Or keystrokes. 
Maybe a dampness over London at 
night. Rollerblades but no socks. 
Toast but no jam. A billboard ad 
pushing underwear. Stacks of 
bills. Butterfly cocoons. 
Emergency chords. Fluffy then 
some more. Clumps of frowning 
faces. Unexpected giggles. More 
narrow interpretations. A pause.
Skin around elbows. Arms too short
to box. Newly laundered linen.
Too much hot air. Steam to open
an envelope. Swinging on a swing.
Stair steps. Perched on a ladder.
Pulling the shade at dusk. Great
cosmic mysteries teasing the senses.
Breaking a wishbone with gentility.