Coffee to Coltrane.
A black silky reminder of where I am not.
These pages turn towards tomorrow's come-and-go, and it feels like violence.
Summer cherries and pits and that thing some people do to the stem with their tongue . . .is that sexy?
I did not choose this desire for blue.
water / sky / mood / moon
and the way my heart must be buried
when the bluebird words you used to write
forget me not
One flutters above the fray yet can't help but notice the catastrophe of bodily proportions.
Of which atmosphere do I belong?
Yes, all of it.
Everywhere's community of false lives.
Coltrane to Carruth.
Are we listening?
Hayseed acid in your throat.
Harvesting has begun.
The muck fields hold a heavy onion breath and the sod farm rollers crawl in the linear existence that makes so much sense.
Line by line he also calls attention to a lavender Christ and thickening apples and the first flushing of maple.
Do you remember the time I fell down at the mention of how a maple must turn red and therein lies its beauty?
Carruth and cinnamon.
The tinge of rust that arrives bit by bit, a lesser red blushing the fallen.
Let's meet behind the barn, for it's the only reconciliation that is left to address.
Two birds with one stone – the cardinal and the crow.
Skip pebbles with me, won't you?
Cinnamon and cabernet.
Swill a bit.
Stain with the bleed.
The drunken rose will spill unto the forest floor as we grab for water to dilute the permanence.
And there it is . . . the return to the Water Bearer and all his many forms.
I know no otherwise, dear one.