loop-line

On a summer Sunday loop-line train,
waiting for our departure,
everyone is moving just
as themselves, uncontrived in this
array of rushing hushing blushing
gestures; the subtle thrust of
thus.

I can imagine a poem
of everyone smiling.

How is it I'm
content with this
perfection?

carrying nothing

a pair of cupped hands--
carrying nothing
until it becomes water to be
brought to the ocean.

speed

"Poetry is just the substitution of one speed for another, as reading is, as love is. Two hands of a buddha, a boxer, a clock." --map

creation

a middle-aged construction worker squatting in the street and calmly watching the pile of destroyed building he has made.

blooms

a girl on the train holds a small bunch of purple flowers. seeing a small card amidst the blooms, I wonder about where the message written on it came from.