wander down with gentle rains
along the furrows dug along those
long straight rows out
back

I seep and trickle
flow among each drop
seek the lowest spot
and gather

low with my kin
follow gravity to its
beginning

to the neediest root
the dryest eye
make tears

a pied pipers eye
to cry at the  drop of a
small seed

into the next cloud
to serenade
each fallen hero

making life renew
stop
and look

becoming
moist
I am

just dew
and heaven
mists

Can't see the dawn
from the angle of dusk
Even harder to believe--
it could see me?
Why would sunrise care about its setting?

“I think you'd hafta be flyin', er sumpthin'

Maybe if I banked a 180
gazing into that new east?
Okay--

I know it's not

I could still see the reflections
of where it was
of warmth and color where it used to be?
Okay--

...and now I'm just the warmth of the reflected
disorientation

--*******, that poetry-killing six syllable word!

Ya wanna pass that joint
before I land this heap without My wheels down”

which period shall I resound the four
verses one, the rhyme?  shall I use parentheses
or just write free, might I space
or italicize or leave this un-glamorized?

I walk down the long six-story concrete steps
a step at a time divining
the barren apartment
the govt spends
its money on above hovering

You think I want to live here
in this danger rat infestation
its free but that don't make me happy
I have a baby
and the world calls me a freeloader

obviously, I have decided to
write this in stanzas
it doesn't flow like the steps
this woman walks down daily
I do my best

sometimes I sleep with men when the cupboards bare
I decided to break the flow up

for why
I don't know

I have gone two weeks without diapers before and my baby
I would do anything for her so don't judge me. I
am not a *****.

I am trying to survive.  

Again I interrupt her story to inject-
poetry has to make a difference, it often doesn't rhyme, it
isn't made to be  syllables and meters.
It is to make a difference. Let me shut up.
let her speak.

I didn't mean to bring a child into this hell. But I gave in
to one night of weakness, Now I am stuck  on the sixth floor here in this bleak *** building with no hope no
idea how I might make her life better.
I have tried god.

All I have now are the streets.

The streets are brutal.

while many the limbs do speak their blues in lonesome woods
as leaves this time of year fall away from twig from view
decay in shades of purple hues under naked boughs and still
strong bare trunks under grayer skies and more nights news
the tree does see her next year already the buds growing a new
harvest of tender sprouts and flowers perhaps a brighter
year and winter rests through her bareness upon the ground for once turns it brown footsteps of squirrels and claws still visit
anon their slumbering upon her bark like flesh tender hearing
the time clock say its time to rest again and let us renew
under whitefall flakes and frost and dew renew a limb
broke off last year let a few months slumber begin and anew
neat spring spry forward more glorious and stronger
more colorful like life which has this seasons plan and days in sun
all arranged and days in rest brown naked and ways we just can't understand
but nature...
does