Telling: Streams & Logs




If my heart were a mud pie baking on a slate plate,
the ants regaling me with news of home—

You are coming. You are gone.
This way, this way. Follow along...

If my heart were a popsicle stick stuck to the white bin,
purply kissing the assertion that some things are past use.

If I were the forced rush of water
breaking into brightness.

If everything I once knew
tucked itself back into the book.

If the clocktick double-timed me.

If I were the dim of light-rimmed shades.

The hum of the mower too distant
to speak my name distinctly.

That yellow heat. That green endurance.

If my flower ripened to seed.

If the beetle's lace undressed me.

If the dark under the pillow kept its promises.