Two Poems by Joshua Stanley

It is a persistent floatation on the glass, the conflict there 
between passengers & the forecast latest. 
It is a speech up, & a separation of 
concept there, there out on the pane, the final season 

& the door is closed.  We had never 
opened it & looking through the grass 
stains on shoes are noticable & even casual. 
Though that is not the cause, the crowding is 

& I about discovery can look 
through the screen & at the sight with 
rest.  That is music, the height of it 
's coming together, the chance to turn it 

around.  There are the best laid plans 
if we can search out the morale off of 
& deep the beaten ship all out & in the open 
before the cataclysm comes in the wash. 

They cleaned the screen, before, & they 
will do it again.  Marigolds would be on the path. 
It is a pasting spread, the light, it never 
ends from the bulb & the primary consult. 

I will wait.  & I can 
watch the handle if you want. 

Only if you want.  Do.

The exchange of temperature unfelt bent blades of grass
is essence tension to a shift in space,
out of Roland's curvaceous horns fugue
it arrives to the day in completion, black vs yellow.

Winds roar while the meniscus surface of
the rain gage itself can do "so" to the glance
bare as it is the effort, out of permanence,
as out of the starlit stammered, known &

familiar. More than that, a veritable imprint is
like the sound, it is a damage to roll over.
The neck is swan-like & the raspberry canes
dead. This year's lacking drought. Are wasps though.

Two is a gallery of many layers for this weather,
gladness that no shells were brought back
here & the decorative spills over
by the tunics set up as guards to the crows

                                  when absence is avoiding you.

Leave the backdoor unlocked.

(The occasional mower's hum.)


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