Riding passenger side, I snap shots
Winding up, down in front
Stability taking on long exposures.
From the back seat youth mocks
Our separated falconer’s aging grace.
Two instant polaroids, twins
Destroyed by pictures of memory.
Precious and precarious, sliding
There once, here once,
Then at once gone again.
Right heel dug into the floorboard,
My driver breaks so hard and we
Rise higher for another mile. Memory,
The silent thief, steals selectively —
As if nature meant nothing of value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers —
All the wild green needles.
Sewing up uniform badges of yellow and purple.
The foothills’ shoulders grow anew with peonies
And gold sunshine glowing with military atonement.
How jagged time? Uneven hours
We spend ours climbing that hill again.
Revealing the light our hands shield
Our vision with a tight salute.
Soldiering on escape the fight
And yielding to our darkness.
Thrown at our windshield
Sticky bug bags take the first punch.
Tonight we cheer for an unknown winner:
The Surreal versus The Unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around the ring.
The Summit dragging us down for the count.
Face flat then right over onto the side.
Automatic machines gun with
Buckshot spray. Hitting whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,
Unifor and bones fast and cold underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment so real to me anyway,
Inertia now drove dissension in the
Ranks, attracting attention, dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape of dense silver fog.
Branching in and out to take my focus
Away, lost in the sky and yet at home.
Running beside the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Follow each by each in broken golden lines.
Shrinking to a pointed index fingers,
Words written between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes writing letters
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees and they alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages like towers of Babylon
Yet without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation.
The mighty force upwards, tying rings around
Hands remembering papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.
Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.
You snap me awake. My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel to the death –
I roll one window down with enough sense to show
Our passage party the orange evening parades
And presents a silent moment for exposure.
When nighttime undies the simple flash
Lighting up the cul-du-sac we find a space
Quieting the car and stalling the motor.
The king and queen announced lit up by drums
Of snake oils and Butter-cupped angel’s trumpets.
Washing off any
Sickness, our plague
Knows when we’re gone
Waves roll in goodbye.
Blue sky of eventide.