By Craig Kirchner
Last night I watched the sidewalk quiver,
spasm as if caressed,
bordered by tufts of neon moss,
chameleon in green finesse.
The trickle in the gutter,
leftovers from a mint fresh rain,
corroded bricks to urban silt,
sloughed to sewers, to mud, to dust.
Trees like plastic Hollywood,
were cramped by raised cement.
It seemed as if this camouflage,
these row-house slabs of man,
had failed to cover, to hide, to dent,
the transcendence of crawling weeds,
the evening’s strange foment.
Craig Kirchner is retired and living in Jacksonville. He loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. Craig’s writing has been published in Chiron Review, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Main Street Rag and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig can be found on Bluesky
Academy of the Heart And Mind 