2008 Nothing

A horse death, a famous laugh.

Empty is as empty does.
Because.

To: Mields

You starve a British rock
no continent brave enough
for your praise.

When that sun was looming
that early morning river bridge
you hung
in tough comforters. You
had water glasses
cough for you.

There is no blancher, face-down man
surer-of-matters, carpet-father,
vidja dweller.

Yours, a bathroom mirror
emaciated because time.
Because time dresses lightly
but with sterling intentions.
Yours is a way through,
or yours might as well be
a staple on the floor singing an organized blues,
sun gazed on vending machine light hue.

Itinerants

“We are leaving now.”

The simple air filled with manna and kitchen pie
Clouds are sweeping the sky
And we’re scurried from afar.
Wonder in our veins
Collect dust
In the vintage sun.

“We are going down.”

A secular coffee
Sugar cubes singing storms
Of blind love parables
The drinkers of indubitable
Indulgence, serious
Uninspired and short.

“We are going down, indubitably.”

If you keep moving
Under arbor starlight 
Past the fork bins and
The schizandra berry bushes
They collect something
Like our garish half
Famous laughs
Under the arduous light
Continue, honey lemon plight.

“We are chaste, because it suits our face.”

I wouldn’t be dreaming of you
If I weren’t itinerant
A serious picture of
Serious winter, I came here
To uphold a shaky hand
Curling in Gregorian light.

“Tell me where you’ve been
Under what light
Serenaded on Mountain Hymn.”

The milky chalcedony
Resembles shrapnel in our past
We pull out too fast
Like ductape and mustaches
Pain refilling and refilling
In the water glasses.

“We are ravage beasts circling your veranda.”

Propagated
To more beautiful eras
We don’t speak like bards
Affable to even the most distant backyard
Inoculant praise shrouds
Like a poultice of Carmenere cloud.
But we are at several ends
Lost, unopened
By the fork bins.