Or a name for the insignificant
a mark for the in between
I come bearing whispers
Or we enter through the neck
a note of pinging glass
the shunt of waves
Or a precise day inside a forest
a cloud on the back side of paint
we sail through the chunky house
Or my bottle shoveled out of hand
held swinging by a giant thigh
a stately walk through sturdy phlox
Or fields of lavender
sweet cushions of distance
a drink of pure survival
___
It was a time in the story when bicycles were popular and low to the ground. Men rode
them without injury, although one day a man pointed at her like a prophet and reminded
her that disaster was on its way and she better watch out. “You people,” he said, “don’t
see it coming.” “You people?” she said. And he pedaled away furiously. “You mean, like
pedestrians?” she called after him.
___
Armed with paddles and shanks bought from a 10-year-old carver of knives and his
brother at the farmers market this morning I thought these are the princes of the future
who know how to do with and without no matter who will chase down the man on the
bicycle here now armed with metal and wood fleeing (all the known world will emerge
from a farm near Monticello) shank boys swimming into preparations for what is less
than a year away and so what if our minds fall away into fog and her that excellent
creator curls into a density of knots I spent a night turning loved into a living river where
boats still sail to placate my fears armed with what would not be whole armed with the
brains of banishment together we will chase down the bicyclist on contraptions of our
own in mighty ritual
___
Or he
pedals away swarmed
and shoeless
sings behind
her back or she
banishes him: Leave,
old friend! He peace-
signs her or
she holds him
lovingly—fog
living on the river