J.C.Wright, August, 2016

Roots stick out from red clay.

I forget about my dream.

After rain, clouds tiptoe away.

Number 87 slides

off the track, back wheels

aflame. Happy 4th.

Hercules lying around —
stars spread out on night's

velvet pool of spilt ink.

Taking a tick off Alex's neck,

dragon smoke floats across

tree tops before rain.

The rain insists on its own

sentences. Its tattered hum

drums the bird-filled trees.

Fairy wand beside the path.

I wish for forever.

Crows gathering at dusk.


Swan never hurries.
I too have no place to be.
Chokeberries falling.

After last night’s rain
a slew of mushrooms sets up
big tops on the lot.

The wind must like me.
Only my hat blows away
chasing umbrella.

Moon grows a white beard,
mist, wispy around its chin.
We must be mirrors.

Under the empress tree,
black butterfly between leaves
come to hear me play.


Parasol mushrooms,
caps atilt, make a grand show
waltzing with the moon.

Ants carry a dead moth
away in tiny pieces.
No time to quibble.

Lattice wings outspread,
a dragonfly has transpired.
Infinity sighs.

Across the river,
tallest steeple in Greenpoint.
Your dress teases a breeze.

Goose poop on sidewalk,
green goop. Watch your step, silly.
Don’t make up small fibs.

Woken by a bad dream,
I am not an imposter.
The Express whistles.

Jeff at Dixon Pl 1-1-13


J.C.Wright, 2013

Often in the lonesome section
I barbeque the mirror. Your laughter
an elixir. Where sometimes means
X and never means Y. There

we cross hairs in our new direction.
Eating the bones of dreams, we
both have grown fatter but now
is notorious and the speaker’s patter

makes no sense although I discern
a pattern of adaption. Currently
half past to die for.
Waiting for the number one train.

Gluing light to swollen words.
Gluing words to pages of quicksand.