We read
in fragments:
the brilliant
salty demise,
dried scales
of intention flaked every-
where, guts piled
under a bridge we cross β
slick angles of light β silver
glass and sparks β 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 β
ask for an opening,
a feathered ribcage that
blooms onto
β
a wide swath
where bodies
β
and fields
begin
before sun cooks tops
β
or a dragonfly poses
still for the displaced rug-
β
rumpled crease
where night meets morning,
β
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 β
when I walk out, ask
if she needs coffee
β
or food,
I feel the container
we each inhabit
β
soften,
β
become porous,
then a paper orange conflagration
bursts apart
β
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
β 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.