Poetry by David P. Miller

Off the Docket

Meeting rooms with lackey-jive: you fled them
for spaces brimmed with rubbed-glass soundwaves.

In their dreams, committees unfasten. Delegates weep
with relief as rosined bows shiver

planes of metal. Harmonic rooms disadopt
every agenda item, unsecond every motion.

In the morning, they’re gaveled back into order.
You lift your elsewhere self from bed,

put your ear to the windowpane in a small kitchen.
You love this mundane room. It has space

vibrating everywhere, close. Inside, winter light’s
first pool above the sink. You listen for

trash trucks repaneling the air. Still, those dockets
remain intact. Still, you’ve adjourned yourself,

stepping out through fresh day-jambs.

Too Much Fun Up There


The stem of a terror-thrill carnival flower
stabs up through a wash of cirrus. We’re high
as the sky! the kids squeal. Swing chairs
at each petal point, stuffed
with amusement cravers. All the people,
see us flung into blue as cables snap
in harmony. Superb joke, right? Must be
virtual. What a bunch of kidders, you guys.
Us? Not really catapulted — no, not sprung wild –
it’s just another internet-of-things hoax
in steel, twisted wire. Look ma, no VR goggles!


You know what               I’ve never seen
     a fireball’s crown       from quite this angle.
A bird’s-eye view     though granted     birds are few.
          This     is     quite     the     novelty.
              gold   azure    maroon    emerald
                    crackles    crenellations
      The science of it!   The art!   The impossible elegance.
Just imagine       we thought up all this splendor
                                           with our own minds.


          undated                 black

      starbeam armrays                 darken

                    pinpoint      shutdowns

                 no                    appointment

what          am       I            doing

       here            I        what        have

                doing                    where


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