HOME | DD

Description
some of us are content
sketching out proofs in chalk,
elbow-deep in the guts of mechanics
where sparks fly
in a flood of associations/
torment of carnations bursting
with the precision of an abstract language
which never
works when some things clearly do:
a crystal clear sound,
a 7am fog

i don't understand; & i try harder
with different starting points,
different trajectories
looping off in mad hare tracks,
but it seem like it always converges

to a cardinal landing
on a puffy pine branch.

in a few years, wordworts
will sprout no new cones,
all i hope for are new arrangements
of the herbarium
i'll present on my deathbed.

in a few years, none of us will remain
but the creek will,
so i whisper secrets
into charged particles of water
& close the book.

and if i convince one man of the value of sunrise's milky froth
in west coastern dew,
so be it.
and if this is how the days' cement will settle, golden and uneasy,
so be it.
and a roommate snores in ancient swells
like the red loam that lines this gully,
old, reliable
breath.
so there's something we can count on
between now and the next blink
and if that's enough,
so be it.