May Procession Poem by John Courtney

On the horizon. Grasshoppers
wake horses. Summer slides
back on birds. Feathers sober
on worms. A thorn takes
blood to her rose. Cotton
learns to grow from clouds
making love. Ghosts take
the hand of the sun and they
dance on a laundry string.

On the highway. Street lights
stop living. There are black
lines you can't see. White
lines plagiarize the free light.
In sleep I call the future. In
life I call the past. The radio
has much to say on both.

In my neighborhood. Babies
wake dogs. Shoes slip into
footsteps. The expressways
jam. Roofers drink under
a blue roof. The post office
was slowly dying. The school
bell sings. Bees suck on the
parking lot. Your mother drives
a gray Oldsmobile with one red
door. She puts you on the edge
of the infield. You draw your
name in the dirt. You pound
your throwing hand into your
catching glove. You are fire
alone near water. You are
ready.