Turns

Turns

Turns

It makes the matter worse. The sounding
amid an explosion of spring
among the set pieces of human faces & their cool shaded houses,
I am leaving,
goodbye my old age, being accused of
anti-grey
I run backward towards the centerpiece
of sofas
in the turn-inside-out
of a de chirico square
one figure too many
I opt for pencils
easy, easy
blue rags & brown scarves, moving
targets, they wave
to me
even when they are down &
out