In Search of John Popsun

The Alps Go out from here. 

We dropped our baskets 

And went out hunting. 

There was incredulous 

Love making. 

We heard things from the hereafter. 

We commandeered safe passage 

Out through the rolling Atlantic. 

We heard of an attractive hand

At the firing range 

That drew in the pack of hyenas,

A few of us responded with a 

Map of the constellations 

Others began to desire 

Brilliant foliage 

And a few bills in their bill fold. 

We were waiting for it to get cold, 

For it to snow, to go out looking 

Through the snowy streets of New England, 

And found that 

This is not such a crazy place 

For a famous hat, 

In Hartford.

Snow Watching

God, I hate my shallowness
and my chemiluminesence
the planted maple and native oak
the snow burst that might out live us
The fabular and urbane
I hate my invasion of space
like a spell that comes apart
and flakes misplace
The stick and smiling streams
of lawns
that somehow, O recreation
is the destination of the laundry
dampens in the wash
and the paper
separating before evening
before the relaxed windows
where the leaves reveal their underneath
wind at a stand still.