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The bridge would disappear
in a forgotten sound
And the train would soon
catch up with the world,
A victory of silence on sound,
of sun over shadow.
We knew there would be
another clackety-clackety
Crossing of water and wind,
more sound and fury.

Dark falls as rain drops on moss maps
A dark that comes from the outer sky
To beat the moss maps to submission.

Rain is thing like darkness held by train
Or coconuts that have lost their moon
From their hair, in a night’s rain dance.

The smile on his lips is cartoon
Since we can’t cartoon sadness.

Sadness is too big for a cartoon
Like sea that turns sad at times

But seems happy on the waves.
The sea is pretending its waves.

Do the butterfly boats know
The sea’s heart at its depth?

Only  wind knows deep sea
Stirring its deepest feelings.

Butterfly boats are flapping
Their wings empty of  wind

Like crows that remain froze
In sky, not finding dead fish.

I now try a mindful of the country
Overgrown tree paradise staying

Spread as impressionist painting.
Brushstrokes approximate truth.

Five senses are country and soul
That see everything, include ears

And the beauty of liberating smell,
The gentle touch of spring breeze.

Not every old poet knows
How to mark single beam

The sunbeam briefly held
On a bright and sunny day

To dissolve in a day’s light
And be lost to his sunset.

We are stuck, with the bees,
To beard like week’s stubble

Like burnt brush on the hills.
They buzz in ears, gloriously

Pierced for gold, for catching
A sun at its rise and in its fall.

There is a painted dragon
In new paint and laughter

Her belly recently stitched.
We have seen in daytime,

Tourists sitting on dragon,
She is full of day’s selfies.

After credit of a 27th days’ pension,
Now you have to prove you are alive

Like old couple prove by sea waves.
What am I thinking? You are asking.

Nothing except a few lines of poetry.
What am I thinking about in last line?

That pension goes on until I am alive,
Poetry keeps alive and pensionable.

Let us cold -arrest the evenings
And use a poet’s hot air instead

Like girls use for hirsute beauty
On seamed skull plates of bone.

Old skull’s seams shall fall apart
After a sunset’s fever in bodies.

Beauty is a moment in evenings.
A sunset dies daily ,reborn daily.