“A Light Read”

Shaking fingers at you invisibly,

shaking one at myself mirrored.

Yesterday half hanging body

curling, kissing the rooftop fence

Down down deep down the taxis 

swirling, not colliding yet, 

Big plastic Dice twisted

reflected in the windshield,

 no destination. 



Last Monday bathing lavender bubbles 

soaking my skin. Hours Hours in the hours

sleeping, dreaming of purple Nightmares, 

turning brain off, on, off, on. 

Accepting static sounds.


I heard the brain continues to hear for minutes after.


Tomorrow corner of 86th and Madison 

a traveler crosses. 

No patience for the electronic go, 

Body struck and flying in dark-hell pants 

and worn-rotted loafers. 


One loafer hits opposite side of sidewalk.








Weeks later many signs:

Did you see the car that killed our mother?


(And didn’t kill me.)