Working Outlets

Whether it be the spiraling of smoke drifting up from a cigarette.
Green. Yellow. Red. Wheels rolling to Stop. Or.
What some call miracles. I can only see good. Naivety.
I can only see in fractions, fractured glass, empty spaces.

We call it a waterfall, but waters fall. That sheet of rushing white
is not whole. Even the sky, blue, broken up by cloud. Sun. Moon.
Gasses. Heat. Turmoil of the solar system. Turmoil of the Sol.

Whether it be the spiraling of smoke drifting up from a cigarette.
Or. The repetition and incorrect use of punctuation to identify
experiment. I can only see the red heart of that paper-rolled tobacco.
Pulse. A breathing body. Miracle. I can only see so far inside.

Then the car becomes a top, spinning. And my head whirls.
There are colors in the empty spaces, broken up by cloud.
Someone had the correct spelling for the word I was thinking, but

whether it be the spiraling of smoke drifting up from a cigarette.
I identified the object flying through space. Rim. Headlight. Mirror.
An enactment of the self looking upon the self as the self objectifies.
The tip of a finger inside a splinter of reflective glass.

Wonder is not the same as wander, but there are times I wander when wondering.
Turmoil of the soul. Traffic light. Lamppost. We call it The Fall, but
falls give rise to differences. That of the difference between word & object.

Whether it be the spiraling of smoke drifting up from a cigarette
and up to where God can breath earth into his ever expanding lungs. Or.
What we call a miracle. God. Breathing. Life. Into. The man on
the fourth floor of the nearest hospital whose life depends on working outlets.

I still see wonder in the unfinished piece of piano music. One
minor chord in the chorus. The moment before. Yellow.
Pulse. The movement forward, into... Unidentified space.