Time is Write

Palimpsest lined streets.
I’ve written over your body
here and there. The words stop singing.
The flowers left out
have become rigid,
soldiers out in the cold.

Then there is the middle
where you give the reason
for everything you’ve done.
You support yourself on what
you’ve been coming from.
It’s ups and downs
to the pizza store summer and then back
to things that keep flashing like you’ve seen them
around before,
maybe written to yourself
somewhere
that man is standing
by the window.
Do you know him?
or what he
is waiting
for what?
Do you know
him by the window?
That man is standing
and waiting for something.

On the roof something passes
from the lips of a horn,
down the street.
spring blossoms in a pizza box.
The cars are lined up like abacus beads
and I can almost read something from the numbers.
Are they counting your eyes blinking?
I’m trying again
to stop thinking.