i opened my windows this morning
the sounds of the city droning in my ears
the beehive is collapsing
and everyone is still going about their business
as if nothing has changed
and nothing else matters

you get used, and you even get comfortable
in your misery because it happens to be 'yours'
oh, city of desperate angels, my Cleveland
when did you sell your naked soul for a few borrowed
coins of half-truths, for a few dollars more?

streams of current binding
like slick seaweed
rooted drowned deep
sluice shores
the washed up
silt choked
treasure
glistening and still
immured
and lapped with waves
tasted sweet with bitter
salt
the briny tangle
splayed out with all
the bits of shells
brightly

i want to write love poems and
tell you stories of why the Edelweiss
yodel, how your tongue speaks fluently
in my mouth, but it was raining in my dream

there is no famine in Somalia
and Palestine is no longer occupied,
I want to spread the word that love has been found
in the shadow-world of man,
the alien has landed
and lives with both feet on the ground

All is still and summer green
(far too hot for most to stir)
Wild life is hidden by leaves' screen
Insect calls are a quiet purr.

In midst of season all still grows
fawns, squirrel kits and even plants.
The living forest rests, it knows,
that soon will come the harvest dance.

Anticipation slowly builds
as August quietly rolls around.
Crops putting on their final yield
sustenance from warm dry ground.