I need to see every flower
pouncing from the earth To see oceans diving off the rocky sky To see mountains tangled in weeds of clouds on the horizon The keening earth in volcano The end of each day pleading that I leave this place, so I can safely return come morn Photo: wallup.net
Softly comes slowly
to the middle years of this winter, the wind brews a cold cup of resin, while clouds are chipped chotchkies, fisherkings straddle an edge of memory as the moon crouches to explain
A day of dipping tree
first winter is due tonight I would call the hour “still autumn” and so we spend still autumn rearranging the fire into fire knowing the snow will come all at once every car the same model every tree turning to see
The way the sky makes crayons in the evening.
The way stars simply don’t mind a thing.
It’s the way the frost was Dylan just two weeks ago.
And Saturn spins at the burger joint in town.
I’ve heard cars fly in rain here.
You hear things. Ya wonder.
You repaint the bedroom like a Vegas Versailles.
You dream big. Then smaller…until that fire opal
And your sky becomes paper plate and rock candy
hanging from strings.
In some way.
tree to tree.
heavy with rustle.
black the trunk.
If we leave the moon to its hammock
when the wind swings to and fro,
by god, we’ll lull ourselves an evening,
for cold weather is curious work
of hanging all the apples
Against all skies, all
within the singing heat,
melancholy’s cologne –
the dark sweet air