Forests are the Corner of my Street

I’m holding a pizza sign; Tuesday special.
Pictures of horses and Alaska. The edge of the world.
Trains to Hawaii. Color painted line work
by Rothko.  The outside of my sign.

Instruments of money, a lifetime;
the readiness of bus stops.  Car horns, the
clouds don’t know the rain. It’s not even winter
and I’m holding open the front door. Metal.

I’m standing at the corner of Fullerton and Pulaski.
Short conversations, eye pods.  A wave of the
hand.  Crippled corduroy, a canvas tote
carries the ocean to the back of my right arm.

A metronome blinks, the vibrations of a dog walking.
The camel lights another cowboy.  Hounds tooth, tiger’s
blood, the ribbons of pancreatic hair styles. Vagrants.
The shortest day of my life was a refrigerator.

I’m wearing holes in the bottom of my shoes,
the calm wind, the buzz saw of soaked chandeliers,
summer is a bucket of water.  Sun Tea.  Plastic. A
circle. The lid on that dumpster is flipped open, no chain.

I’m empathizing with circus elephants. Painted barrels,
symptoms of causation. The brake lights, a clover
of grass.  A treadmill.  Yesterday I’m a mouse, the clocks
are like rain. The coils of my hand are a ceiling fan.

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