Birthday 77

—next morning

time’s getting blurry out there

it’s like trying to snap a bullet train
with an old kodak brownie
like trying to catch the wind
as one songwriter said.
time is a jet plane 
it moves too fast said another
there’s no end to metaphor
but lousy imagination
no end, but

the sky’s clear blue this morning
sun is raking the arbor vitae
making each east limb-tip lemon  
crab grass is thick and green after rains
my feet would sink four inches deep 
if I stood there 
the road’s yellow lines 
tend somewhere,