Herald

Perhaps it was the end of the month,

when trees shook down their garments, hanging

platters like servants in a palsy, trays and themselves

unearthing, what lies beneath, makes rubbish of cars.

So, many fires, so many submerged tunnels.

There is Gabriel fearsomely blowing his trumpet,

his cheeks so red from the effort.

We are all thankful to have set before him

a little deaf girl designed to alert us to the sound,

she is making mud pies, her red rain boots

up to the lip never fill with water, slickers

prevail, silence is its own protection.

Everyone out of the way! The ice in my gin is melting

new political continents, map this with your acquiescence.

I’m riding my tricycle down to the park.

I don’t worry about traffic because I evaporate

before each taxi, puddle under pick-ups,

and reconstitute like a powder of milk. I wave

to you in your office building, you muskrats,

staring at the nail that held the clock, I squeeze

the bulb of my horn, red-full of fluid time,

no honks but squirting, clown gags a face full of innards,

I’m arriving, train bob, roller coasters set to sea

for their Viking burial, not natural but heralded. 

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