(Something Old) Something Blue

Wailing



I perceive nothing tangible now...
only
detail in perfection:
clear, crystal

far off minutiae of tree limbed emptiness.

A flannel shirt, soft in the sun;
smooth bone buttons, cream against
textured plaid.

I hear the birds,
the constant chatter of squirrels

there is the scent of dirt, wet in the cold
reassuring under the blanket
of gold and red leaves
precise against
the green.

Light filters down
amongst branches reaching, naked prayers
to the impossible still of sky

somewhere a conversation
a laugh
a ring of cigarette smoke;

if I turn, to the right
your car, my books
with sketches of
katydids captured in plastic cups,

my orange peels
laying on the dash
releasing hunger into the air;

a single
stray red hair abandoned on the seat;
found later, a shot of color in
gray starvation.

I know that if I turn to my left
I will see the russet of pine needles
scattered on stone
and the sound of footsteps
rattling echoes
against the log cabin.

If
I could sleep now;

I would,
in the pale yellow
rumple of bed sheets, butter
soft from skin

my fingers trapping moths
stupid against the night
coming back to candlelight;
the moon is too far

(can you feel me now?)

waiting,

for the sun to drift
to afternoon.