By Mike O’Connell

Writing should be jet noise
shaking rafters
causing sleeping things to wake
see new suns
in the same old skies
it should also be a sweet thing
singularly smiling
wrapping around
just outside the soul
urging us to drift away
time suspended
both mirror and obvious
in and without
passing by
throwing things to the crowds
of the self with
a kick in the stepping
in parades
going by
bringing solace to souls
with perhaps a little nightmare
to a dream.