He wrote one poem in helium balloons,
arranged into a lunar sort of order,
floating off and away once read.
Another rushed by, railroad cars,
ferocious, loud, fast in purpose,
with a reverb clickety clack noise
that dialed down in zoom digress.
He inked one up in the rinse of time,
forgot so quick, turned hole and haunt.
One across the neighbors’ teeth,
and they joked so, elbowed ribs,
as he read aloud off their broadest grins.
One, he scratched out by connecting stars.
One to the heartbeat of a soldier mid-battle,
another paced to petals falling off a wedding bower.
One written with the suds in a rising wave
before it crashed, slid to punctuation point.
Eight tiger growls, eight stanzas!
Proclaimed in a single elephant’s trumpet!
Sound of air off a divebombing hawk!
Even the yap-yap-yap of a lap dog he despised.
One written in water droplets that flew
off her body as she stepped from the shower
then leaped into bed. One in her walk
into a party—send a message to her friend.
One began with an oncologist’s line,
“Time to get your things in order.”
All the rest came after death.
Or so, we suspect. The first in fearful
blank and silence across our time alone.
Soon, our eyes adjusted to mere absence.
Now, we see his poems everywhere!
Chrome Press 