Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Driving home at sunset
3
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.
Geeks transformed into
leading men stop hearts, but then
revert back next day.
From an estate sale –
pendulum clock. Westminster
chimes now count my days.
Tourists whisked to the
top while on tenant floors, one
hears “shhhhhhsss” like secrets.
Like a hick I tilt my
head to see the top and
ponder tossed pennies.
In the skyscraper
canyons, light outlines moving
shapes sipping Starbucks.
“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.
Flushing Meadows Park
once a site of hope. There, a
globe pledged future peace.
a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language