I
The days are long where she lives
in the dark eye of longitude, her
inner mass to fly as tricks delivered
behind the performance, springs
as gracious undoing’s, dutiful
acceptance—to be there, in time,
in place, where perception is truth,
reality motivates action, no
longer mysterious processes.
She confesses the urge to speak,
to bare the blooming rose
even as rebuke caresses granite
fragments she leaves behind,
fictional mistakes as perfection
blooms and dust sheds critical
encores: one antinomy, two
ambiguity, three anachronistic
pleasure reviving design in
meanderings, while creative
orders night into day.
II
Where she lives, imagination
weaves poetic lines tumbling
like showcases of need—more
virtue, more desire—this dream
out of straight cloth, full wrap
to dress her silk as guards for
night, words to days branding
themes, betrayed dissonance
her promised stand.
III
How would she know back then
what the words were up to, how
they mistook her fervor knowing
intuition folded in quartos of
hidden heart feasting as flashlight
in hand or day’s light on four wheels —
enigmatic house rolling through
desert floor, coyote howls
and panhandle fodder—those
plates playing revolving games
and the future vanities of security
ungirded rails—she would gamble
on synapses to adjust creative
matter, her master to poem and
words diverging incipient play.
IV
The poles run north and south
as she reflects the mirrors of truth
prefigured like arcs of old diversions
intersecting twisting figures
painted on inner walls, prehistoric
searches where days long to meet
the text of four wheels meeting south.
1 comment
Long days and night criss crossing the country filled to the brim with lonesome, wrapped with a sweet sadness, best left as a memory not revisited often.