November 12, 2019

• visionary

  

   

  images
  on shifting waters.  the meadow's walls
  are whiter than they were yesterday.
  i have held things in my mouth
  that i cannot say, acts in my chest
  that i cannot do.  and yet i am strangely content--

  adrift in the realm of wonderment,
  living in a blood that is all mine
  in the color of spirits
  floating backwards.

  love isn't blind, but deaf.  and genies
  who so generously grant wishes
  vanish in an instant. but life is easy
  when you know the art
  of falling apart...

  time is a bowling ball in a net-- i know this
  because you told me.  so you still sleep
  cradled in my body, your breathing
  is still rhythmic, still half mine,  seventeen
  breaths of my minute,

  a gentle rocking.

  winter is immense, a place in which i get lost
  on my way to whatever comes next.
  i simply can't be bitter; succumb to despair...

  dogwoods will again open their hands,
  azaleas will catch on fire,
  sunset will paint the puddles gold.
  i will acquire a passing knowledge of the stars,

  uncoiled into understated passion, shaped by
  a visionary who had everything wrong,

  whose
  beginnings concluded without warning

  • 5:53 pm
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