may makes the sound of a misty woodland

ropes of soaked boughs hang over northside avenues


exhausted from the growth with excess slipping onto my pants

highlighter moss a soft, clay eraser


blurring the edges of what is already there

something between form and nothing


being alive or not existing at all

a robin-song is the neighbor of my brain


somewhere outside my skull riding through the rain

I hear the offering of context


thoughts patter in a rain-coat-hood unburdening

like the bowl-shaped maple leaf on the fallen pollen and pods