…just after re-reading Poe and today’s newspaper

In a new sequence saturated with discarded pigments,
an opinionated voice keeps shouting “No one hears sounds in a dream.”
Is this true? Are dreams silent?
Yesterday, cautiously walking around a lilac gray gravestone,
it cracked and fell, killing
a small child waiting on the other side.
The strewn bunch of red-rose screams
almost soaks in.

Today, a moss stained cross tumbles,
punctuates a boring conversation
and crushes the middle aged gardener
pushing his pumpkin-orange lawn mower.
Turquoise grass cutting fly easily.

When the engine finally stuttered,
dandelion snowflakes puffed against a flushed boy
struggling to lift three hundred and eight pounds
of exquisite blue marble.

And when the blades stalled completely,
a blood-red gas leaked toward my ears.

I should also mention older slabs of smoke-blue granite
pushing down the patches of dark green thyme.
Their unavoidable embrace is so quiet
I almost hear a diesel engine
when the town’s chrome-yellow backhoe
turns off the highway.
It shines its headlights in the blue afternoon.
I strain to hear the held back traffic accelerate.