My sketchbook

My subjectivity and my emotions
taste bitter, a thin arm, too thin for the sleeve
of the teeshirt, in my sketchbook

Falling over themselves like roses
all a special case, weightless
dolls and other toys, counted, put away

*

Sketched sleeves of green shirt
An arm, a length of arm, ogre-green
lapses, beads, walking slowly
as if afraid of falling
no greeting, aware of eyes

French natives generate French accents
yellow complexion
economical use of hands

*

A boy in orange long-sleeved tee
dribbles, holds basketball away
from smaller boy who swipes and misses
Shiny girls, green balloons, a June party

*

A wall that makes no sense
so think of it as a canvas
unwieldy, deceptively heavy
dangerous during thunderstorms
and noisy under fountains

*

Cross-hatched winds
sheer and waves
A tiny boy sprawls in rectangular clothes

Devising instructions
designing software
a string mower
a wilted hill
divebombing robin
a lewd insult

Air is set in motion by the sun
My arm is numb, asleep
Nocturnal ants crawl over tiles

*

Retelling the way something fried
registered difficulty
when something’s quiet
another golden rolling dog
with a curled tail

*

Yellow daylily dingbats
Hair straightened with an iron

She lies on grass on cellphone
checking in for the feeling
or searching for good restaurants

By mistake I board a plane for Chicago
after searching through New York debris
for a bicycle that is really
locked throughout the winter
to a parking sign near Harvard Sq.
just uphill from a medieval town
its streets lined with casement-windowed shops

I meant to go to Miami

A dry refreshing breeze
is screened for a small audience
An invited pink rose