Some cold night! Wow!
and us, first on the watery realm—
rich ashwood 'gainst a current as
we battle on boards shaved from
mad walls we'd so carefully mapped
precisely, as if asking for change. Listen
to the rush of the coming scenery
mist, instantly a mysterious atmosphere —
I told him so, but mister
the ruckus was his vintage ride— we rise
"from here on up the skies taste just like hope"
most strictly just ether of course but copious
the flow, blasting, man
life —what reckless throttling isthmus or else what holy
bounce our role-models flushed down to the feels
— blows from a horn
standing next to the amp of pure darkness deafening
the test of the affected knick-knack inaction.
Like light-headed ghosts, career-sitting as we say,
weighted by a meteoric scale —
sightless— imagine maneuvering woe with caution
like anchorites in a pool of mornings
what they'd give to know courage fused to completion.
Don't rush pal the deal is ready. Bright hope is astringent
You caught me perusing clothes to vacation
to a landscape's shaved neck —where breathes the young child
cobwebbed by dawn, "but it's desire" she said.
—the vast chasm a gate exemplifying tensions
mere steps from the limits of space
a scene, terrifying— it isn't exactly across we go
but to the present— mouths repaired full up with ephemeral
old truth, my daughter, touching my hand
with all the right words, on all-fours
come on with
she says
not
done
not
yet.
Labels: astringency, burnt money ash, gate, islands of the mind, light-headed ghosts, maneuvering woe, mist connections, poetry, rivers, straddle yesteryear