His passing is from
the pedaling that’s done.
His pedaling makes
the passing we’ll see.
His passing is from
the pedaling that’s done.
His pedaling makes
the passing we’ll see.
A single thought drifts in
hangs, goes
Milk light from the blue, aging night sky.
Drink at last of its newness.
Well before the sun
This is where
the road will go,
but where is where
the future will go?
Put it all in the air
and let it hang there,
our ball of broken dreams
and broken bones
I am now in a room where
my father is in a tent
at Sequim Bay.
He’s lit a fire and
his fingers move.
Their shadows are like strings
tied to the tent,
pulling it down.
When you live at the
depth of the goodness of life,
no skull will unsettle you,
but you’ll wonder at
the shape the good can take
Some of the best poets are in advertising