peering in
on a room well kept
for an abandoned power plant
cheerful as a nursery
lacking toys
and a bit of glazing
not entirely well appointed
still, tidy enough
to evoke
the feeling that
someone else belongs here
in a way which
I do not

light and dark frame passage
a portal to a place between worlds
broken glass and spray painted figures…
the real guardians at the gate are not visible
one might well glean that any real access
to the railroad that fades into infinity
requires a certain proof of mettle
though it may be less clear
how that requirement
might be satisfied…
step inside?

a backdrop of branches
made soft by distance
a nest for a seedpod
freshly split open
soon to reveal
fluffy seeds
beckoned
by the wind
and conditions
ripe for traveling
far from this place
while they still can
before they settle in
and put down roots
never to fly again
until the cycle
continues
again

gravity
or wind
or the
pressure
of footfalls
has turned this
plant upside down
suspended
above the bluest
broken glass
that ever
reflected
the sky

the absence of light
lines drawn in charcoal
on a concrete drawing pad
above a pool of broken glass
a jagged palette of watercolors

this landscape in miniature
is it the troubled dream
of a sleeping artist
or is it a delight
to one fully
awake?

broken glass
lined with silver
reflecting a fractured sky
whole in each part

offline
for years
idle, it seems
broken windows
an enterprising vine
and years of inactivity
have accumulated to the
point where the power now
generated is by nature
and aesthetic

starkly beautiful
an industrial postcard
from the seventies

an illegible palimpsest
of former identities
above a random
patchwork of
former windows
embedded in a wall
that seems to be prone
to losing mortar over time
given the splotchy repointing
and areas now needing the same

ain’t it funny how time gets stuck
lodged in the inconsistencies
expressed on the surface
of an old brick wall
visible remnants
undeniable
evidence
of how
time
. . .
flows
despite
the sticky
surfaces that
catch at it while
it passes unchecked
like the wind, perhaps
it is not so much time that
lodges in these crevices but
its effect – like the wind it can’t
be seen, only its effect on what it
passes by, and like the wind can
only be felt as that passing by
takes place, as time travels
on its unrestricted way

boxcar garage
like a silver screen
playing a hobo film
in the sparse shadow
of a sunlit lot