We scribble our notes on life
While hands lay still in pockets
Gleaning notes on many things .
We may pick up a pebble or two
Or a sea shell for later emptying
The pockets inside out at home.
Like poet found the white froze
In theory of colors across night,
A white that held a light all day.
And the light that became bird
A red or green in following tail,
Or a green stratified as foliage.
Sometimes we move on in train
To pick up notes in our pockets
Of many landscapes and birds.
Milk birds move up and down
On wire in tandem with notes,
In pockets for later emptying.
We number endnotes serially
And once we reach our homes
We empty pockets inside out.