It’s a stroke of genius

possibly good design

how the sun’s white light

quickly turns to darkness

and then begins the great work

of keeping it out of my mind.

I am not like I was

the scars of summer

heal quickly

in the great work

of Bactine

and the sublime.

They don’t make them like they used to;

bee stings

blisters

and banana seats.

Are all things

better

or different

than before?

It is brilliant

the sun’s white light

unrelenting

seemingly sustainable

possibly divine

grilled on the bar b q

medium

rare

lickety split and right on time.

Spitting out cherry pits

to the mourning doves

sheep hang from the clothesline

in wolves clothing

and

the night’s membrane folds over

and

by the process of phagocytosis

I am engulfed in a vacuole

which becomes my home.

Out of reach from the sun

and under the sky

darkness sets in

and it’s only me

peeling away

the texture of this great design.

The breeze on my skin,

the weeds have been wacked,

the leaves are all blown,

the scent of the shirtless evening

is Coppertone

and the taste a mix of tiger tail and pistachio.

Walking at night

my curiousity is aroused

the deadly nightshade is to the left

of where the moonflowers unwound.

I am trying to lose all of the things

that I found

during the time that I was lost

on life’s merry-go-round.

Seersucker

sheep lightning

they all wash and they wear

and are hanging from the clothesline

just about dry.

I see London

I see France

I’m looking for the clothes pegs

in my underpants.

Counting sheets

until I fall asleep

and the busy night sky

suddenly turns into lightning white

and the roar goes away.

During a balmy night

and after a hot day

the best thing to do

is lie on the dew

of the grass

and look up through the zinnias at the sky

and watch for satellites

and tune the transistor radio

and make contact with them as they go by.