From a Diary Found at the Foot of a Golden Bridge Pier #3

Membrane between Another Two Years
Feeling like going out somewhere a while
I get dressed up–the finest ones I have.
But no place to go, I pace my room,
a sea breeze trapped in a seashore shell or cave.


Whooo-whooooo! The whistle gouging the black night,
Transporting strange faces to strange places through the yellowed fog
Swathed warm in cold tin and steel cars,
their windows glowing low as in slow blurred photos.


1. Tailor at the Seams
Waiting at the year end.
Noses in the train through the mist whistling.
Quiet leaves a leaf last. A bud where it clung.

2. A Micrologist’s Colony
Mirth crowds Creel, the neon city festive.
Colorful like flags. No pixel sans a color.
So cute under Galaxo Farr’s microscope!

4 July
The last twigs and the barkless branches
made it still a tree. A set of seasons the same
it germinated, flourished and bore fruits in,
then it was reduced to a weathered stump, grown over,
a rotten door to the world for burrowing rodents,
and then the baseboard of a termite mound
slowly shrinking back and retracting into the soil.
The unmarked grave of a nameless tree
that has seen the earth undulate and metamorphose
the seas choke on and throw up mountains
and mountains sink and settle down at the bottom
of their slimy graves for shipwreck souls to fall on.


A radicle broke the freeze in bird droppings
like an image sculpted in a stone wall shifting.
I saw that long ago, while we were returning
from a food hunt with those stone tools.

27 December
These days I have nothing to write.
Nothing we add to or take from the world.
The world is a constant in constant flux.

Have a piece of peace, if not its whole pound.


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