Wicked May Day

Wind blows over
assumptions about a season. Not this year.
Come back next. Those tiny buds break
my heart. Teased
into believing warmth
would change me. Waiting
for the next me to bloom, I can’t
put this one in the back
of the closet yet. The crowded front
muffles a familiar hum—to be released.

Hmm (Day 2,987)

Music sounds better without
the smoke. I’m the listener,
not the singer. But forgive me
if I mouth his words, even sing along,

as I walk across another skyway bridge
on my way to heightened
exhales. Hums crossing dangerously close
to humiliation—still better than

arrogantly setting
tobacco on fire again.

Song from a Petri Dish

Microscope left on the piano
no one plays
tonight. Parades in the cold

silence this close study
of notes. Lids down,

I can hear
the blizzards that hum
without strings.