There is a calling out through the chimes
in the narrow spaces
between neighbors and lives.
It spares you the voices
by carrying them off
beyond padded hills
it sprays the waves and
displays a dance of palms.
It’s whistling in the ironwood pines
ringing the bells of flag poles.
These traveling companions;
wind walking beside me, on a lane, leaves lonely
the moon balanced on a ridgeline
Behind the clouds, the peeking stars, the fast moving sky,
quivering leaves of descending eyes
dripping tears on parched skin
like a blistered asphalt whim
and a plumeria leaf that rolls to its completion
only to begin again.
Dancing against fences
like specters climbing chain link.
Finding their fallen amongst the tangle of trees.
Leaving a prayer to this motion,
weaving an offering on the river top,
a thought as the sun goes down and the sky goes out,
something to begin and end with.
Empty me into the sea
with currents that speak of waves
that breach the empty beach
of stars you could practically reach.
Night is but an unprepared speech
that echoes in an empty hall.
Fall rain, burst from a swollen vein,
carry me through rivers of blood and drain
these streets of debris
tree trunks and mud wash through the city
like an emphatic victory.