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Noontime and the day listens
to stars above blueness, stars
uttering their large confusions
of mass inside chemical skins.

Would it harm anyone
if a mass of puzzled atoms
also wonders the summer,
wonders at humidity gathering
like skin tears...or wonders vapor
from marrow arcing over moments,
in shape of a swan's winged shadow
to ballet a mood, shadow the heart?

It shouldn't harm anyone at all.

He is now as free as escaping heat
to go into moments like old gray film
flickering by as 1950 high rise suites
where existential people daydream
or mutter quietly of how nothing is
more like death than a longing stare 
at bouquet of one impossible flower.



[I apologize for posting this new poem. I tried to cast a particular mood into a series of images. Those images came spontaneously, similar to but not exactly automatic writing. I violated one of my principles: a poem should communicate to the reader. The odds are against anyone else having my particular mood. The odds are even more against such a mood (if recognized) conjuring up these spontaneous images in another person. A moment of weakness on my part. Oh, well.]