I used to find joy in little things.

Like luck on the head
of a penny.

Or a tire chained
to a blue wall
in the subway.

Or two bullets,
no gun.

Or your glance
on long drives
beside the ocean.

I feel ill. I declare this heaven’s day.

No fool was a folk legend tragedy.
No fool a fish on a hook
reeled from the lake.

Tomorrow my hand leaves
your palm.

Your name, claws
on the four-drink ignition.

White rose– consider
a wing. Next, a thumb.

Voices, skies so blue…

I’d find your eyes play music.

 

(originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2017)