Cloud Houses

In heaven
Where coins are useless
No need for eyeballs

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Boat rotting on the beach
Ghost still rows
What happens
Is relatively simple

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Houses, barns, trees
Proclaim in mannered voices
Those who presided here.

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Turns on his radio
For psychotherapy

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Andante Favori
A dance with animals, autumn

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“He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection.”

—Elizabeth Bishop

Blind man with pictures in his head…

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I make cloud houses for a living
I’m a fair singer also
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Don’t judge my posture

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Poor Achilles, always a mama’s boy

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Eat more American prunes

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Cat stares down coyote
Past lives are decisive

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Best anagram ever: “Public relations” = “Crap built on lies”

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Imagination had been grudging
Now it was doggish
Over there and over there