The neighborhood's a drain with dry weeds clogging every manhole and the gutters slick with newsprint, where the kids run rip-rap down the alleys and are gone. See, trash collects against the cyclone fences. Nothing but the wind gets through. The great blue sky keeps bunching thunderheads which is the neighbors' only news.
Swimming is only metaphor for eyes arms hands the soul bare as morning.
This morning a man walks in an orchard in a drunkenness of blossoms such fragrant pink hair. He forgets to count his fingers, his breath goes on without him, his lips nothing but portals of flesh become air. From the thinnest twigs moss sucks silver out of twilight. Here, before the oaks drift off to darkness and the rocks sink into earth, one big-throat jazzman at a boggy edge of pond starts improvising green. To comment on poetry, go to our public, on-line discussion forum.