Trashed or Tied

Six white windows slit night
open to its emptiness.

What do you read on its canvas?

What pulled you here
(burnt air) cools
itself in the river’s basin,
smudges sunup.

Someone’s finger says
of the local skyline
smoke there.

Then fog dispenses with street.

Which would you prefer,
the manhandled garden
or the monstrous
dandelion out of its head?

Transparency

Branches press flat on glass.
Down the street, semaphores.

Heavy jugs of light
judder at crossroads

close to elegant until a picture
points them out.

All day I splinter leaves
with my feet, conduct them

in, singed flags.
I think I see you in the back window,

waving there, your show moving
west then east.

The photos so dramaturgical.
Torso turns to see

how great a distance I earned
to make.