The Gypsy-Hungarian

The Gypsy-Hungarian sat still, 
untying his shoes.
He's asleep now.  The old horse
lost in the mirror.
The wind's beginning
to widen the window now
that I've put geraniums into its belly.
He hasn't anybody.  A pity.
I want to go, I want to get away
from the little cupboard.
Harlequin says: "Your face
is always a departure."
I'll rummage through his trunk
to find drawings fit for
memory cinders.
I pull the door open.
In my forehead presses 
a logical purple.  I can see
a little flash, a fish, and
sacks of grain where dusty moths
have been asleep for centuries.
They turn toward the moon and
reignite their persistence.

Ypsilanti (Room For the Future)

Your presence a capitulation.

Invited just to avoid the dance floor.

Be charming, chat with the hostess.

A young couple playing house.

A few familiar faces lit up

amongst other strangers.

Dim lights, near winter.

Awkward orbit satellite drifting.

A fish amongst amphibians--

sauced frogs. A fish can't cant,

They can shine, reflect

with glimmering scales.

Where is your school?

Your flock?  I listened

to the wall with my back

He said Abraham Lincoln

and the police in Olympia
share one thing in common.

How did they end up in the house?

Empty rooms, a yard

A sidewalk to pull up to

Cold air to breathe on

the way to the door

Stars on a stretched black

fabric overhead, a furnace

and vapor resting on windows--

Bathrooms for guests to escape to,

locks on all the fortress doors.

There is room for the future in America--

We don't have to park on the curb

And standing in the middle of a

neighborhood street the sky

can touch you on the chest.