John Phillips

Crawlspace

No wind touches them:
Ragged ghosts of old webs,
Yellow bones of recent ones,
The shimmering scales of new.
Deadly blackberries sit at their corners.
The head of a spade rests
Rusting next to a basket of
Fence clasps and spindled nests of wires.
Scraps of rotted lumber.
Squirrel parts, scattered by
Whispers of snakes' tails --
I too must slide on my belly
To see any of it.

The Bike

I am touching the sun

Through the rushing air,

Hair akimbo, fleeing

In the dreaming trees,

Rolling over sewer grates,

Styrofoam remnants clinging

To their iron lips, inhaling

Pollen, exhaling the

Death-rattle of winter.

The rippling sidewalk

Gasps under the wheels,

Crumbling in the hazy

Touch of bitter grass,

Weeds growing in my chest,

As I curl my wheedling

Pathway along, its fingers

Brushing the small of

The city's back, just enough

To feel it breathing.