We read
in fragments:
the brilliant
salty demise,
dried scales
of intention flaked every-
where, guts piled
under a bridge we cross –
slick angles of light – silver
glass and sparks – that compose
the morning bay.
But we adjust,
then even
crave the lean, spare
flatness of necessity
as it fans out along the coast-
line toward the
open gulf.
In the kitchen,
forest green enamel,
steel wool,
sink strainer –
ask for an opening,
a feathered ribcage that
blooms onto
a wide swath
where bodies
and fields
begin
before sun cooks tops
or a dragonfly poses
still for the displaced rug-
rumpled crease
where night meets morning,
sleepwalking.
All day, rain and Rust-
Oleum in hand & coarse #3,
Leticia working in the cool mouth
of the garage while a shower
smooths over the cracked driveway –
when I walk out, ask
if she needs coffee
or food,
I feel the container
we each inhabit
soften,
become porous,
then a paper orange conflagration
bursts apart
over green turf
as clouds break up.
After rain washes
the spare trees
with ink
and rinses
the grass blades,
and we're thumbing
through junk mail,
it comes out
– mottled
rugose skin,
plastic
supple limbs,
then stares
at us through the skinny
window at the front
door: globed
crystal eyes
gleaming
a forest fire
into the reclining light.