FOUR WORKS
BY JAY THOMAS
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TRANSIT POEMS 5-8
5.
Puffy trees, no clouds, power lines, hands down.
Smaller wooden wonder that far
elongated diamond heads, tall
smoke windows, uneven. Rocks
keep blue up, sleeves lighter
than pants. Stink all day, chair
over highway, always parts two ribbons, same
motion concentric. Asleep
in alcohol, must have bedded
the frame. Glasses fallen
off of clock. Right hand
left to snooze.
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6.
Rainbow circles moon, clouds wrap
moon, open-ended. Cut straight
down
from six
minutes. Stop
at cliff. Silhouette
stuck
in glue.
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7.
Arrow, not bald. Fingers stubble
over forehead. Tall,
like trucks. Like a house,
titled easy. Turns over
in the red
lake. Cement
that floats.
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8.
Cramp arm clears the city.
Descends, then up
again. Imagine road signs
unhappy, solar panels unplugged, stains
impenetrable to brushes, ripped
gums. Crawl
under edge,
hang. Break
to destination
in silence. Doors click. Long
mouth. Pursed locks
of hair. Carpet feet press. Shoes
dash in one direction. Glisten.
Seats floating thin shadows, double
light crosses image. Print on either
side of lens, face flat as cap,
confused. Huge business
glasses. The eyes
confirm,
confident
he'd never existed
between lines.