By the Don River
The Don glistens
faintly at night
besides an illuminated city
the unused
train tracks we are walking
in a fantasy
grow
stretch
expand
swell
like the invisible spirits
buried
in the darkness
until
they explode
An Embrace
This time—
that begins after death
this time—
not the mellow cooing dreams
of the meditating pigeons
this time—
not the symphony
of the blue and white
mountain ranges
this time
is a dune of dust
with an undying embrace
Sparking Sound
The flute forgotten for years
awakens one late night
in an instant
when the sound of a verse
merges with the rays of
the half-moon
what beats in the bodies
are the moment’s
expectations
disenchantments
exultations
a half-dream
navigates across the reality
the wind that whispers
through the window seals
is quiet now
awaiting
another twinkling
Remembering
One evening when
night and day
meet
in the copper sky
one evening when
the snowfall
stops
one evening when
you remember
a friend
you had watched a play
outdoor in a park
one evening when
time appears in multiverse
flashed-back
fast-forwarded
slow-motioned
paused
recorded
one evening
time becomes a verse
Karma
In the grey smoky sky
drifts the sun
with its final glow
a bumblebee
loiters
in a small garden
by the lake
an old lady
with a rosary asks me
whether time begets karma
or karma creates time
the flowers
generate desires
or
the bumblebee’s desires
breed them
I return
from a walk with
a conundrum of karma
looking at
a thin filament light
in the grey smoky sky
After the Pandemic
I look out
from the wide windows
of the streetcar
the sky is cloudy
the city moves
the crowd appears
we all live
a longing
which keeps replicating
in a ‘maybe’
or many in a series
a gentleman standing
in front of a store
asks for a dollar
curses the virus
