moe on the front porch
gazing over her shoulder
at the birds bathing in the puddle
that is always there
(where the truck/cars park)
after a rain
smiling at how some people
have stone/clay sculpturesque
bird bath things set up in their yards
and we, we have this divit in our parking spot
and to the birds, it seems to be all the same
good where we’ve been good where we’re going to
good where we’ve been good where we’re going to
i sing pedaling up/down the lilts of hills
between departure and arrival
swallowtail (black with some orange/blue spots)
fumbling around at the edge of the field
injured i say
wet wings maybe christina says
there will be weirdnesses i say
to mica about this time of
transition while we
shed frisbee clothes
at the pond edge
and while mark disapproves of weirdnesses
as a noun i tell him he’s forgetting that i’m
a poet and i can do whatever i want with words
and then i say something about a band:
mica and the weirdnesses
simple living in a complicated world
dad says he figured out a title for my book
(the one he says i should write
and the one i joke about being on chapter five of)
as he was coming off of general anasthesia yesterday
how it almost looks like
creases or folds in the land
in its rise-falls and the white
strip of rock road threaded through it
as i pedal down whoerle
at smith road

pink redbud blooms in foreground
white apricot? blooms in background
strip of bare branched forest
in further background and a sunset spill
of melted pink-into-peach beyond that
first fireflies of the season seen
blinking on/off in the strip of woods
south of karma in the not-quite dark but certainly
past sunset
moonglow rising up out of the treeline


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