Andrew Hamlin

What is this concrete, such gravel, steel, that rebar against the dead stars?

Small plane overhead and a worn van’s chittering usher out the sun

Empty ice-cream pint in this, I’ve cultivated exactly one ant.

Atop dinosaurs we prance; who can say what, shall caper over us?

Just gone to purple the upper sky through my blinds pale blue over West.

I begin putting it all together; almost done, at the green light.

Canned soul singer, Dixieland street trumpet, join downtown midair

Terry Hall’s windows how much they’ve seen; do they catch that tear of the wrecker?

Decades of students… now nothing sits inside save the grinding machines

Daylight Savings, spring I’m late to the library on time for the sun.

On a bench with this guitar; awaiting rebuke… only the softball field

“Softball’s silly”–and he stole my lover, so he must know everything.

Two-hour wait for the top of the queue, wrestling Quetzalcoatl

The truck, downshifting thick chuffle of the air brakes a pause in the wind

Five ones, he wants and will he haunt downstairs ever after, for them?

The sun dries out my drowned world, warms my toes; I’ll leave dishes, to insects.

My brother’s birthday a Portuguese singer soothes pricked anxiety

The cherry blossoms! I pity He who grows bored of them–wait, is that…?

The ambulance man he sees me, my northbound bus, then runs to the west.

Gasoline can, spilled then righted, five yards away sunny-hot pavement.

Yes, Lloyd Building, Yes, Int’nl Teriyaki, Stay, feeble sunshine!

Five pigeons, rooftop one does a dance while the rest perch, vigilant.

Does anybody think, of this old bench, and its conversation husks?

“I can’t stand the rain”– or, for today’s purposes the gaps in the rain

The engine surges as it drives the pavement saw 9 am Saturday

Spider, seventh floor spun its web in a recess what makes its dinner?

A hard grind ahead but I’m lying on my back grateful for no rain.

Waterspout, column a leak from the overpass white gold from the sun

The washerwoman’s cry in her sleep: “She flies!” …her sole indulgence

“Where are you going?” He just makes a fishy face and doesn’t answer

One horrible week the library’s north window it’s Sunday again.

Piebald fireplug flaking yellow over over green shorter than the weeds.

I punched myself in the head, last week, both sides still tender, still sore.

The boy waits his turn, with a smaller boy, plastic one wears a red cap.

In the heat I smell the man knitting a green hat has not washed today.

I can’t write haiku about that fellow taking the shutter cord for his toy.

I could write haiku about the suspense thrumming as I breathe deeply.

Right now I think only of the two donuts awaiting me, soon…

The nurse guides a man on the phone; he’s gotten lost and have not we all?

I had to hear them squabbling over violence, to appreciate peace.

One mustn’t assume sadness, from the downturned face or the pleading hands

Front yard: Stalks poke up struggling past the edges of two small stiff green boots.

I can’t name the tree but its small bright blue blossoms etch the alleyway

A car beeps once in this cool grey morning is anyone aboard?

8:10 pm, stuck with this guitar I can’t sell; sunshine and splatter.

Nude by the window again; seventh-floor breezes cool on my left flank.

A question, he has, on the bus, but a Mohawk too; so, no answer.

A break in the rain gardener’s impatient rake pulls the still-moist leaves.

The sound of a smile yes, it’s a little bit like soup spooned from the bowl

The bum’s sundered face telephone in hand; sad news; he crimps a new smoke.

I place four fingers to my breast beside my heart Coltrane touches here

In the room, though not for a long time, the kettle on to boil.

He dies quietly the clamor of before, stilled one ring on his hand.

Putting on Brubeck, lying back waiting to die one whole year passes

These socks I have now should last a good while; only a handful of holes

Two old men toe-to-toe one snores, head tipped back, mouth open one takes in the news.

Kindergarten boy waist-high to his mother’s hug edge of the playfield.

Electric fan drones rain splatters the night outside I find sleep in between

I see seven miles to the north, to the water the Naval Station

Deep-nosed exhale–sob, I think; the parade-goers take no notice

I’ve tried all the things, I’ve said, alcohol to Jah, the sting still sits in

Cord pulled tight over storm windows on the truck’s side the bus shambles south

Boy in green jacket testing his spring against the train and happy to lose

That sunshine glow spreads as the northbound train pull in… it’s only one light.

Like anything else I eventually stop but not on this day

He makes a peace sign at the D Line pulling out five orchids in hand

She’s talking to God or to something in the sky keeping it civil.

A balancing act two fat crows on thin branches watch Convention Place.

Sweat collecting on the heel of my right hand dampens the denim

I remind myself not to expect friendship there, that’s better.

Bellevue bus banner “8 restaurants to choose from” the pigeon pecks crumbs

The Fourth of July means nothing to me this year but thick, rolling booms.

One table, one man eating a bean from a plate outside, history

The fire station flag stands at half-mast; butterflies catch the breeze, higher

Sixteen chickadees find, on the short sticker bush rest for the twilight

Who watches the light in the corner, as it clicks on and off again?

Every day is death, every day is life; as such, what more can be said?

That siren downtown for just an instant I heard a man’s wide-mouthed cry.

Steel pipe overhead sings is own song, this hottest day of the summer.

I’ll fancy the mush rotting in my black waste can, the beach at high tide.

“You look pretty” says the old man, greeting each young lady gone by.

Waiting for the rain settling for those cold breezes… ahh, wet speckles.

Two drunks sing along with Pigpen; he’s dead but keeps up appearances.

The whole galaxy, denied her by one hundred- odd feet of tunnel.

His hand flap backwards as he toothlessly chews pizza, waiting for the bus.

She rolls up her dress blue flowers over boxers near the Black Muslim.

At ninety-one, how many other naps has she taken in sunlight?

The floor, worn away into grimacing profiles, into continents.

The fly seeks the sun, never getting through the screen last week of July.

Her hair, purple waves over a determined stare, guitar on her back.

The terns flap southeast and what if it’s the last time I behold such?

A short maple’s shade two inches short of my ledge neck craned for the bus.

An immense stone hand holds two figures in its palm; a son and father.

Gull on a thermal, mistaken, one instant, for stolen gossamer.

Raindrop to pavement softer, just a touch, than one footstep in the night.

Her square Pan Am bag holds her skirt down in the back at long last, the train.

Ford F-150, curbside, signal blinking, some armor sans a knight.

I take this long drink of cool air through my window, savoring nightfall.

Two crows on the track one without a bite of bread follows the one with.

Wind doesn’t whisper it reminds us of how we’ve mislaid memory.

Pen clenched in left hand, bent over her sudoku… our train cools down.

To grandmother and grandfather, his tattoo, but I don’t ask him why.

Two umbrellas hung from the guard tower railing, not needed today.

Balloon flowers, available in two shades; grade-school commuters.

Ducks greet the sunrise I hear them but don’t see them as they plan their day.

I put down my book to watch alternating lights, both red, from the bus.

Yes! Go forth and seek enlightenment through one rake; I’ll pray you find it.

I wait, with sausage; that elevator’s taking a long time today.

Two dogs in the lake black fur white fur flank-to-flank; who chews on the stick?

She bids the blind man goodbye, leaving him her seat and a shoulder touch.

Two crows kissing left side of the chapel cross aloft, then, due west

“hole”–written on a big board which actually has one, this side up.

The window and desire must intersect at some point I’ll think on it more.

The barking dog on Wednesday afternoon keeps me from my nap.

The spider, gone from its web at 4:45; Will I call again?

I shall leave nothing for posterity to hold same sun, same window

He throws a quarter and a dime, into the sun clutching chardonnay.

Rain drips down the ledge my friend sleeps in the back room two hours to sundown

Southbound SUVs caught in mid-morning commute are varispeed snails.

I could wager on which stone a raindrop might strike and lose yet again.

Late-night bus tunnel forgotten, tomorrow the blue of train 16

Four green lights hang back in a hunched pack; gang-bangers awaiting their strike.

White roses, bouquets and the old lady keeps them refrigerated.

“All beauty must die” sang Alan last night, onstage… dare I disagree?

Uncollected stones reaffirm optimism in autumn twilight

This summer, tries hard not to die; blazing daytime …cold nights, decay.

What I have, really to claim? This one piece of skin and dust on my floor.

I clutch at the air my clawed fingers signify victory!… Well, big whoop.