Poor Man's Pockets

I have a poor man’s pockets
full of roadside monuments;
the sparrow-speak of
seraphs’ wings sewn into my soul

with Indian tobacco,
pocket watch tickings
slow so near
the mass of heaven;

a bedroll full of ashes.

I have collected recollections—
tire-iron frenzy
in the valleys nearing dusk;

Kerouac ghosts
in troopers’ eyes,

passersby
as angel as
damselflies

beneath the bridges;
breathing down the corridors
of wide expanse,
weak invincibility
made perfect, whole, and round,
and all these things made new
beneath a Jesus-feet sky,
crucifix power-lines
glowing in the sun;

the grace of fire
frightening
spiders
from my sleep,
mandibles
of old hard breaks
away,
glamorous lies
fading in the blood-red flames
that flare behind closed eyes.

I have a brimful of life
pouring over
duct-tape thin-worn boots,

shimmering wilderness years
through great cities,
overland all night
to dawn;

empty pockets
inside out
and mopping up the wonders.