Fountain on Arch

It pours up and bobbles its top.

A dance both unbound and rhythmic

Falls on upward thrusts and blooms whites dots.

Drops against dusk scatter

out and down like dying sparks in July, lit then dark.

And force is null where spheres leap from its apex

To a roily spout below where it moves freely

And spurns each state, shedding gown after gown.

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Attrition Tan Lotion

Not the stroke of green or spectral gray of rocks on linen

Or August rays past leaves onto sunning lakes

Brushed onto canvas with pretty mud—viscid pigment.   

No, not a spark applied to industry:

A cure, a find, a new way to meet ends;

Epiphanies like oil to pistons, tech-lube;

But in each one wonder as long as the sky’s arc,

A reminder clouds, like us, are never the same twice.

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The Bond between Spiders and Ants

At once alone, an unseen nest cups his fall.

Strings on him signal a piqued fate.

A spindly harpist plucks his line free.

Its striped chassis spills its clingy self on its find

It pulls. Up and down it goes—a ritual bop.

With its hind stilts and middle four, it weaves.

It spins its guest with care and aplomb.

For dinner he came and left, a meal half gone.

A soft wind rocks a fading friend to sleep.

A binding mesh waits airborne and longs anew for life lost. 

A Room Darkled

Its quiet halls dimly lit by the moon

Cradles light at entry which fades.

In rooms blackened further by night, sight dies.

The body slumps in comfort. It need not see.

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Eyes give way to echoes of drops, a gusty wind.

Its innards unlike its façade red and ornate,

Questions the gall of structure, the ego’s need.

It leads you to paths you would skip at dawn.

You find hurt fades as well in there uncradled.

You forgo Gnostic trips to savor plainly the abyss.

 It makes plumes of the trying times and secrets stowed,

The wall only tells of its marble sheath, its laths and studs. 

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