A Raccoon Knocked Over A Garbage Bin
The daddy longlegs cantilevers from Styrofoam
to sidewalk. Beetles, red-handed, scurry from a brown banana peel,
and as my gloved hands rake the dregs of recent days to neatly seal
in a new black bag, I think of how much we lose
in a week, or in the span of a second, some wayward glance,
a hush in a waning tide … no moon, no sun, no, merely
the space between … wrinkles slink into our faces.
I would give you wings, but you have risen,
already, high into infertile sky. And in the morning,
without sunrise, I will swear
the wings were broken, were never there, or were crushed,
in some tiny state of insignificance.
Nothing Makes Sense And I’m Glad We Understand That
Wait for the sun to shine past noon.
Palm trees quiver in a vortex of goosebumps.
The universe revealed itself
as a skeleton in the sky.
Vertebrae wisps, stoic.
Jets soared through bone rings
and whispered softly to faraway swans.
Gaze into the galaxy – golden
stalagmites in deep caves – we understand
that we scatter like gulls
only to congregate again
and dance above the sea
all the swirling rainbow colors
in the reflections from puddles
Unravel the universe
from a spool. And as
thread slowly sways,
what we understand.
I learn the mechanics
of fingers, the recess
into runaway clouds, teetering
on the exosphere–
another tiny fraction of the universe,
decimal place moving to the beat
of our tectonics? How they callous
in interminable waltz; still,
when we waltz, time
does not grant that to us.
James Croal Jackson lives for art, adventure, whiskey, and music. He has been widely published and his poems have recently appeared in The Bitter Oleander, LEVELER, and 99 Pine Street. He moved from Los Angeles to Columbus, OH in the middle of a 48-state road trip. Find more of his work at jimjakk.com.