If you see me these days
you’ll think me a madman

You’ll see my lips moving
muttering beneath my breath

You’ll see me stop and stare
at things inconsequential
like branch of a dogwood or
a pigeon eating bread

(Annoyed passers-by will grumble
as they move past,
water over a stone)

You’ll see my eyes close, hands open:
press palms to grass granite light–
hold them there.

But what you may not see
is that I’m just tasting the next line
drinking vowels forming in my mouth
licking consonants skipping from my lips
savoring syrupy syntax

My eyes are mesmerized
interpreting intricacies of arboreal extensions
appreciating the finch’s purple plumage
–seeing what it is we fail to see on a daily basis

My hands:
search to sense the coolness of building shadows
the recycled life of upturned soil
the warmth of the sheets

after you’ve left the bed.