Birds in migrating flocks and families,
fluttering in black waves,
will fly over our houses,
the dried fields,
and the trees with their sullen faces.
Their sight will lift your mood.
Often we wish to escape the city,
to vanish somewhere, as they do
where it is warm,
where comfort is nearer.
At a waterfall cascading down the cliffs,
women with loosened hair
will circle around,
and like birds,
they will spread their wings.
Simply warmth brings everything to life.

Jenny Mechanical is too mecha for the main house
but too human for the tool shed.
She can turn stripped screws, whip up a perfect grilled cheese,
provide power during an outage and mow and mulch while she's at it.
She also dreams of a recharging kiss and poems appear at her fingertips.

Jenny had a little lamb whose fleece was made of synthetic polymer
and everywhere that Jenny went, the lamb was sure to follow her.

See Jenny Mechanical, stopped in the middle of the front yard,
telling her lamb to look at the new leaves with its LED eyes.
She has always been a perfectly average 5 foot 3, can open any jar, pick any lock,
but she is leaking into its faux wool because of something beyond utility.

Jenny Mechanical can eat no fat, nor either any lean
and yet between the two of them she knows her grease from cream.

Still, as Jenny could tell you, mere maintenance is not love
and the poems at her fingertips have diverged from factory settings,
glowing pink
then rose
then lavender
then blue
then indigo
to create from refraction a lovely illusion, a rainbow or so it seems.
___

sitting up straight
inviting inspiration

a whisper on lips
a mind opened

Doing coke with Jack Nicholson
Walking the fells with Wainwright
Stood by Ole Romer's telescope
As he mulled the speed of light
Being that defender
Cruyff first turned
Watching Marie Curie work
Till Aplastic Anemia
Robbed her of her life

Walking well through fire
With Bukowski
And if you will allow me
In all them situations
You'd be alone with the gods.

the wolf howls, no reply.
the clock ticks but never chimes.

who outlasts the tomb?

we walk the halls
to remember footsteps,
shout at the walls, why!

who do walls remember?

whispers and laughter,
the weight of every sigh.
the shadow that weeps
and the child who cries.

the wolf howls, no reply.
the clock ticks but never chimes.

what do windows see?

faces pressed close, lovers kissing.
the tears from a bleeding sky
when the rain
taps gently for all lovers.

walls echo laughter and longing,
and windows dream
of time gone.

the clock is ticking.

who outlasts the tomb?

the wolf howls....
each heartbeat a plea against the void.