One plane grumbles from horizon to horizon. The lilac, almost stripped by the weather, shudders as the rain strikes its remaining rags of purple. I can hear the kitchen clock stepping delicately around a circle. Some days are like this. Suspended between water and grief and recollection.
I am from the pelvic saddle, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner
landlocked. From the ceremony of silly walks and shoes
that pinch. The Reagan years and Loose Gravel signs.
When I wander I carry an ocular device to tune up
the horizon with Gambel Oak and Cricket Mice. It’s
Exit 13 that I want with the Wagon Wheel Diner.
You’ll join me I suppose with your origami mapping
of clouds the equivalent of Georgia and bone
and the oracular tosses of tiles and of stone.
We’ll see where we land. Solemn as goats.
In our grey woolen coats and fingerless gloves.
A coupling of digits. Turn the key and let’s rove.
We arrive, I depart, moss departs. Together / we arrive again, again.
I throw back my head, throw down this shovel, / singing out of a wild mouth.
The next generation of moss, a hymn of bronze / and ice; Otzi the ice man singing on the roof of the world.
like throwing yourself into leaves
the pile-up of the death of the trees
the beast was very very loud
I don’t think you understand
it’s potency, the way
he stood there swaying;
you could almost feel the sea
beneath his feet,
the whale mouth breathing
Come visit me and my broader writing community in Seattle, the Neptune5 Writers Group, comprised of Marjorie Manwaring, Arlene Kim, Nicole Hardy, Hannah Notess, and myself at Neptune5.tumblr.com