Toward 26th & Lyndale

Common Roots not the CC
these days. Urban beavers, the storms
of early summer leave barricades

to lake connecting channel paths
I want to follow. I bless
reversible steps—duck and dart

back through without
a scratch. Not going to play pool
in a darkened bar on a sunny afternoon

the way we used to waste
time. I’m still learning the definition

of precious. You’re in it—
and gone forever.

Day 1,819 (The Keys)

They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me

from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.

Freight Lined

From stifling coolness
within a parking garage,
from the graphite transfer sound 

of a freight elevator shifting floors,
from the deliberate stride
of his black work boots—echo   

his escape, his eyes,
three lines. 

He motions the wall to tumble,
telephone wires to tense outside
a window, a barricade 

withdrawn. He can no longer conceal,
wills stasis to crumble
into being, the outsized beauty 

of his surround
crates toward a red bird sky.