by Robyn Schelenz
Untitled II
Geese don’t separate
They fly
Over the park where teenagers thud
About to scale mountains of heavy things
Ground-level things
Each other
The news
My shoes are as yellow as my teeth.
There is only cold this morning.
Check the moon box
Nothing
No dollars or eggs hatching.
Cold condo socks.
A potato peels itself
It’s watching the news this morning
On the small TV set.
I run out the door
I’ve been late for work
for hours, days, weeks
It’s unknown if they’ll remember me
When I arrive
Fluff
There is a fluff of cranes
To the right.
They seem fine
Shelter in the disaster
That is the spray in the pines.
They fly home now
Wrapping wings around gray light
Exhausting nothing
Even to the end
Like dewdrops
They glide
For their art is nothing;
Nothing they ride.
[Robyn Schelenz is a writer and editor from Pennsylvania. She lives in San Francisco.]
PØST 