If tires could score patterns into pavement
then these would be indelible whorls,
fingertip prints dancing like
overburdened bunting,
stretched until tight,
then released
to snap in rubbery tangles,
twisted and perfectly unplanned.
Everything’s reflecting
as visible music,
an evening composed in motion,
all the shining eyes aglow,
waypoints, lit fuses,
blurred meteors blinking
over darkened sidewalks
as I nod my ragged head,
frayed heartstrings
rubbed thin and ringing,
dilated gaze anchored
onto an uncommon image,
gleaming up from blacktop water,
shimmering in joyful ripples
while earth flies by below,
constant and faithful, steadfast
as the path is abandoned
under shorn sycamores,
as the solitary garden patiently bears
a flattening weight, the fallen body
of a man in love with the moon.
