Mirrors and crosses
illuminated fragments of fall
in the tired turned off streetlights gold
I don’t see the sigma signal in the grass anymore
walk through the picked apart leaves and the voice of November must be hoarse and
coarse and crying
for the cold
The bulbs sprout prematurely and now its spring
but not spring
There’s no room for growth
in this stagnant status quo
that coughs on sleepily
and cries for snow

Solace

Drop down the cold ahead
I have read and been read, the dharma…
that drops from the shelves and delves
into the lanky upholstery draped
and draped over the rungs
the bus that coughs outside
bells
is the ragged exhale and damning breath of the shrinking poor

and men in different beards
sit and line the empty pages flipped over
turning round
thinking Kant and cock
and cursing the bullshit excuses

the bus starts outside
trying to keep time and block by block appointments
he’s kept every appointment
sitting bleary on the bench
bags to warm and fuel the fire
outside the trendy bar
red lights
the bar changes color slowly

they’re growing vegetables in Cuba
they’re growing old in Sudan
skiing down the slippery slopes of profit in Dubai
and thinking of nothing but the thin cold air
up there
up here

and on down the streets where all I see are contradictions
contradiction
the aging hippie generation standing half-baked
and gratefully alive
in Wells Fargo
men in tight ties, jackets serving drinks
contradiction
I’ve learned the value of a stiff quick walk tonight
homeless don’t carry credit cards