a bus passes by

                           this morning,

                           heavily as usual.

rain from a split gutter

pounds the metal awning below it

and eggs have no choice

but to crack in their carton:

ooze of the unfertilized.

i know

i am just someone who

leans on rusted time

                                              unsoiled 

but visionless.

a short wind hovers

over the prairie

                            where

it is impossible

to ambush the dawn

even if the sun is held by the

tail and can only bark.

today is a word

shaken out of a book

and i expect it to hang

by pinning helium balloons to

its shoulders even though its

feet are planted in cement.

so now i bow my head

and frown when gravity

pulls hours and

sunlight into evening, 

                                        exhausted like salmon.