Mon Vert

I ts the troubling fact  I have to choose  what I want to be: from where, which, if the options are endlessly coming. Who can I be?

  the last smoke Is  Left in the air Chortling like a snake Mingling with every ray Of sunshine up the trees that sway Under the cerulean skies The blue with the marbling pink Like thundering clouds the autumn tries to Hoist us up again To where we gave up the stars Outside the bleeding dusk we gaze to its soft Temper the crackles between the sweet quires that makes us lean our heads To our right To The birds migrating With the somber wind each with a beat in the heart and a lost feather dropping from the sky Is closeness that up is not really far  from our hands a bristle of flight far far from winter where it goes.

When reading poetry I become infinitely The many people From far away With The frolic smell Of detergent The wrinkled Sock Hanging for the wind The blend of old money In a forgotten pocket-jacket The toxins for noses Like a bucket of grease In a junkyard The shine in a rail The loose thread in someone's hair When a train stops On a Sunday night When we are simply eclipses of light In a packed carriage I wonder what it is about Relief in Remaining seated Its ambiguous feeling of descent While many are leaving in a hurry the cold froth Of wind is on our backs The sadness goes away but The lingering stuffy air. The charm of things so roughly blended It is just as the  Image of pines wearing me out, I have to go and Air away With The feathers to forest green.

  To make presence Is to whisper Not to make itself known Dares not make its noise but a silent Harrowed bell It is the weak mulling of insects in the woods The light Brisk Movement of the rocks In the cold rivers It sinks somewhere Beneath Swallowed by the sand For it is no more Than a dream A ghost in the dark Like that of a piper Midway his depart He is tired tuning his flute So he simply rests And all the rats  Scatter.