It’s twelve sixteen.
Surrounded.
Smoke curls, beer light
in bottles foams
in guarded fete
of strong heart, normal,
other organs sacrificed.
One more day of dreaming
who will take care
of the cats? I wonder
who will watch for them?
Others? Are the papers in plain
sight? The safe box key
sent? Will it be an urn for me
or monument? Does my flighty faith
hold? I have business still to do
while air whips up fall.
So I calm down,
back to earth with
my new black clock.
One roadside bush
bursts. One bright leaf
beacons to the new sigh
of dying day. I work. I bill.
I pay. We pray.
Old friends now casualty
of the same meander
are small choirs lost
of their angels.
Legs and shoulders break.
In this string, time,
passions are trained
by incident. What was
meant? Who is
to be?
While behind me I
hear the rush of
riptides, lazy cool chat
of lucid limbs
of old trees and pools
in shale-shimmied
coves making shallow
caves of small falling
white water and
the dormant spring
beauty. Disciples
of our grace we run
apace like kids to our
favorite toys, like
we knew this was coming.
