poetry is not like
a bus and yet-
lily taps her foot
when i alight
upon the light
and the lights
go ping-
the driver asks
if i want a ticket
and where i would go?
i think of goa
and all the other
pretty places-
i consider space
within and without..
i consider him
his shining dome
general design
after all my life
his hands..
change-(that word
again..)and up a
spiral
while accelerating!
and breaking
up and back and
on..!
above the trees
the brown plowed
fields
to sit at my seat
like boiled owl
lick my ice cream cone..