In a field of flowers, the marigolds
waved to say hello on behalf of the
wind.  It was not, at that time,
well understood, that the wind had
cosmic drifts of stars, like blossoming
marigolds, to be parried with steel
and resolve.  The numbers added up
to amounts obscured and contradicted.
This interminable universe swirled in
spirals set by the hysterical gardener.
The telephone operator was calm.

Since the man was living the slam
lifestyle, he decided not to write
the slam poem.  His daughter was
discussing the slam conversations.
She was a conversationalist.  The
man considered himself to be her
slam father.  It was all right to be
careful and not get slammed for
work that was inordinately spontaneous.

The salamander did not expect to fine
that a lizard could lose all the teeth
collected through evolution.  Eyes turned
to sink into the dryness of erosion.
Hair failed to grow where the birds
preferred feathers.  The skin began to
fall away leaving the animal out in
cold weather, slowly drying to escape
the erosion of amphibious skills, to
escape the cage of the canvas and slip
into the water another time.

I need to pay,
so I need to be paid;
I am not in debt,
because I have been working.

It seems to be a clear matter
of identifying a name or a place,
on the page, where the photo can
be typed, a title in blue, that
underlines, pulls itself through
the spindle to call the image forth.

It, then, occurs to the watcher that
everything has changed, and the
other scene cannot be found.  The
blighted, slighted mind that worries
and goes looking on and onward
sometimes finds its way, again.
There is no better course than to ask
a confused friend.  Advice leads the
wanderer back to a home where
people are on the same page.

When small pieces of the bark
begin to growl
and the pills are scattered
on the ground,
where the tree began to prowl
in the park
without a sound,

the drop appears.
Like a crystal sphere
it wobbles and, then,
fades back, until the
leaves, and the mind,

turning black, are saturated
with new times; a
suspicious character, perhaps
not as known, already home
and perfectly grown has
reached the end, forever after.

As the salamander was strolling through
the hot coals beside the wall, he noted it
was made of brick.  Going around the
edge of the wall, he realized that
salamanders do not fly, yet soon he was

coasting through the air, high above the
place where the birds were flying.  It was
through the clouds.

The amphibious pile of rags, he agreed,
belonged as a stack of books leaned on
shelves against the bricks.  The birds were
hoping feathers would protect the words
from the rain.  The salamander continued
his agreement; the virtual world of the
pages was another place he could breathe
in a medium not intended for general use.