Climbed up a ladder onto
an icy rooftop, across the
Mountain. Rooftops of the town
lit softly by sun, obscured, some
hints of color, light, coming through in patches
Snapped a photo and thought about possible
accompanying verse — maybe an innoffensive and somehow sharp, somehow
something to prove I'm on the level,
in the know, and although oft silent — that is, not in a rhythm of buzzing --
part of the hive? — silent and therefore cooperative? Silence as part of the
problem? Or possibly as balm? Image may contain all the notes,
a complete offering. Put my hands on the cold metal
ladder and turned 180 with residue jumbles of potential
verse in mind. A clean haiku would've sprung. I'm fumblin'
around — a rubber lumpy wheel on ice, on a slope, a pristine
sentiment below — the firm soil.