Branching paths surround
the yearly wayfinding teams
sounding out old songs.

Not per dag by miles,
but on the other hand two
outta three ain't bad.

A shame I mostly
notice women I don't talk
to if they're pretty.

Ah, coincidence:
That there is some John Jacob
Jingleheimer shit.

Gardening seems so
mysterious and would be
except that things die.

Knock knock. Who's there? Boo.
Boo who? Oh, quit yer cryin'.
It's only a joke.

Bangle the phone lines
with dance slippers! Come out and
paint the town lipstick!

Looking closely, look
again, though looking again
means looking away.

Something is changing.
Something is always changing.
We notice sometimes.

Schools are terrible
places for learning, except
by comparison.

How real is the line—
such order depends on it—
bordered and boundless.

Repeat and repeat
all our ritual errors
again and again.

The river sings to
the bridge, and the bridge sings back
the river its song.

The larger the space,
the more room for surprises,
but you have to look.

I was aiming for
something very subtle and
I have missed the mark.

Such quiet such nights
in the cold of cold winter
the world is itself.

For Paul Halmos

It's not hard to write
without thinking about the
alphabet, just wrong.

"He drew upon the
blackboard, for all to see, the
streptococcus chain."

How precarious
these many tiny footsteps
in the cold cold cold.

My neighbor wonders
why his dog always climbs the
high snow banks to shit.