Trailing a cord of false stops
Under a compass rose
I feed the ducks with raindrops
And fill myself with prose
Static receptors left me
Narrative disarray
The fragments of my story
Are buried in my clay
Monday to Friday, work burns
Memory from the floor
My steady calculation turns
One zero into more
Friday, I tumble down stairs
Carefully synchronized
I watch the moon for wet flares
Then wash out with the tide
Whispering bristles sand down
Saturday's morning face
Outside I found a ghost town
A silence meeting place
Sunday, I carry rag time
Skating without applause
Or slowly spend my odd prime
Composing traffic laws
Tenderness let her name brand
Venice in my skin
Years late, I clutch the mic stand
To speak above the din
Wrapped in a net of raindrops
Wearing a wild rose
I sow the dusk on dead crops
To harvest dawn's first glows
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