walking sutra

when I open the door dozens of crows fly,
they fly southeast on the diagonal—
                        three contrails smear the horizon
rose pink
   
           inexplicably as I cross the street
you aren’t there—a black cricket scurries through
brown leaves & seedkeys—
                                    I’m no different really—
above power lines the swallow zigzags its
silhouette frenzy—

             you aren’t here: though the one
hawthorn, those drooping brown-eyed
                                               Susans, a handful of
cirrus skimming east above high-rises:
            company of sorts—

                       not to mention the many
materializing along the sidewalk:
            & yes, I smile, walking south
& yes she smiles walking north—though
           
                                    you’re right I’m not young:
in just a few minutes the planets will turn on,
            scarlet phosphorescent metallic: a plane’s
just inches from colliding with Mars on high—&
   
            magnolia’s cone fruit dangling above that
bus stop where
                         white blossoms once strewed the lawn &
                                     you aren’t there as the southern
sky grays, the contrails blanch
                         wraith white in the west—though
       
                        at the market the woman weighs black
plums, calls me dear
           
                        & you aren’t there—back east
fireflies luminesce cold without ultraviolet before they
go extinct, here the ginkgo yellows ignoring the fact it’s

August & you aren’t here: still, tomorrow
two planets will coruscate incandescent love &
              thunder over the park & plane trees’ leaves will
stretch out their big hands, you say—

okay: across the street those colored lights, frayed
prayer flags on a string & of course the dark:
             the next step is bound to happen next
           


Jack Hayes
© 2016