Short Shuttles Poems

Dynamic ecstasy shuttles me past the powdered moon
Only to plummet downward toward the sadness of the waking shore
Oh how I dream to float amidst the gentle atmosphere...

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Showers gag the trees,
May shuttles pleats in the sky.
There are towel-drying winds.
Parks grow soggy with small dogs;

May is an old man riding a bike backwards.
It is oil for the broken engine in the barn.
Wetness folds this way and that.
We see nestlings in reservoirs of dew.

Bubbles pop in puddles,
could it be new Life? 
Could it be May, hands in its pockets
like a small boy, whistling and waiting
for something green 
and tufted to happen?...

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