The wind has picked up,

moving through the city streets,

taking attendance.

appearances

the bike locked to the front porch railing

displays a stillness of some duration

standing on two cracked flat tires

and you say you rode it 

as recently as last year

I beg to differ

you disagree

a going nowhere conversation

blank sheet

words that I nurtured

walking across singing snow

won’t come to me now

space

we have the right to
no longer speak of
what caused us so much
 pain

the agitation of a vacuum

housecleaning.

outer space.

it is all dust motes...

aversion

looking away now

expecting calamity

but nothing happens