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Birds gave us the ideas,
from their wings
And bones of hollow air,
silky feathers
That would some times
drop in our street

Dancing down the layers
of air playfully.
We would catch and hide
them in the pages
Of books, not to use them
as bookmarks.

After Rilke,you keep looking
Under the stars and beyond
Or under the old poet’s bed.

Eyelashes have hid women.
Softly place them into stars
Of a night near a pale moon.

You the anyreader,the child is pure air
In a garden ,who has grown and gone.

Our poem is piling to read a goodread.
Our mom is since gone from knocking.

Child and mom are things of a pure air
And soon enough we will be a pure air.

(Taking off from R.L.Stevenson’s poem To Anyreader)

Sleep is a fragment of time,
A belly on four white pillars

The re-engineering marvel
From a dream to its reality

A construct by poem words
To imagine wholes in parts

As each fragment is closure
Standing alone on meaning

She looked on the wall and beyond
And the backs of walkers on a road

Walking to arrive outermost of lives,
To the outreach of their fast walks.

Now it is just a picture from the past.
Now, her ashes gather on river back.

Can we gather the ash of her dream
In a vessel to flow in monsoon time?

There can be black night poems
Silky poems in watchman’s stick
Seeking hollows of road’s earth,

And in fillings of a road’s hollow
By continuing blackness of night
Till the gold of sun fills like teeth.

I wait for dusk to hide your black,
Ode to see a black face in browns.

We old girls play ,bald and ribald.
Like you we believe we have won.

They think they have ,poor things.
Every one lost, blacks and browns.

(remembering Maya Angela’s poem Harlem Hop-
scotch)

Man is gone and laughters,
But pigeon still gutar-gues

On grain, he had sprinkled
Like an early morning light.

His silence still dreams like
A spring morning’s breeze.

Pigeon flight makes sound
In the vast silence of wings.

Grief looks orange on sea waves,
What walking makes them seem.

That bodies are interchangeable
Is figure of speech by sea at dusk.

The body is just figure of speech
When emotion is a color of dusk.

The old transport van trundles past
Sleeping dogs with wind in the eyes
And its fleas with wind in their eyes.

There is no old wind under the door
But the old with a wind in their eyes,
Who have a wind in their old bodies.