these everyday artists
don’t know what they’re looking for.
rising early
(maybe i can find clear blue paper
in the back of the theater)
smells seasons hears drums
walks up and down a tunnel
down cool air, warm updrafts
then hears birds.
sleeps nausea off
in the afternoon sun
as soon as it’s over
nighttime and a sweater.
go swimming in the
globe, cold and smooth against my face
bumpy, rough, Himalayas
soft evening guitars, smells like
old coffee, foreign perfume
maybe time to sing lazy
gritty voice
sounds that make the air thick
songs that last forever.
bobs head, then drowns at night
some Thursdays, but not in Crisp Fall
picking, like picking memories
choosing the sweet sticky ones
the ones that make you pause.
with leftover silence.
