Fluidity

Of Flight


Fair weather for falling
for dirty bare feet propped up on the sleek polished wood of railing
for a gentle lounge across the Indian lands of an old soul's home
for a thin layer of red dog fox hair, graying with graceful age

the same place she claimed as playground as a little girl, bursting with visionary energy,
worlds upon worlds,
wrapping herself in layers and sashes of bright colors,
adorning easy pride for magic carpet rides.

for shared goat cheese and kitchen shenanigans
for a mother's treat of purified water with sliced limes and oranges
for that certain adeptness with language, familiar witticism

you're smug.
you're charged.

falling hard for the simultaneous synchronization of shimmering reflections

for the enchanted lands living in the panes,
portals to the patio world of her childhood castle and the
new realms riddled with the fluidity of rhythms and meaning.

meaning, dance.

for fresh bicycle crash battle scars and
for fresh peppered tomatoes and juices
for beginning to recognize your own squeals of joyful glee
for falling asleep in class to visions of being spanked
(by a cutting board in your mother's kitchen)

background music of Spanish formal and informal commands,
conjugation station.





and just when you thought of the dying honeybees
one flutters to rest upon the crease of your elbow,
mitigating your mess of thoughts to a simple lull of time and days passed.
a ceaseless peace.
like a lover laid bare,
or the knowledge of the loss of existence and the existence of loss.
then shepherding the incoming front and engulfing the circling vultures
the butterflies will stop by on their way to Mexico,
the earth's turning pages fill your open spaces
(flooding the sky's sizzling energy )
with the sweet static of the season.
sticky and lush,
the senses of metamorphosis.
white owls will find you in your dreams and
chase your nightmare terminology to the shadows
until your equations become instinctive
and you move upwards, in the reach of breaching
the promise of relief.
the breadth of your true pitch of breath.
and the heat, God
the heat
outside is warm as unclothed beds
and the scent of release,
the cats are in the window
and the sheets turn over and over again.
in the wind.


such a dazzler
exploitation of exfiltration
wildly spinning nymphet
when


the aeronautics of a life in flight,
the migration is a sign
that it is when the solitude divides
you find yourself in the center.
these golden moments collide
so collect your guileless limbs and go
while there is still time.




"Because of the burnished mist through which I peered at the picture, I was slow in reacting to it, and her bare knees rubbed and knocked impatiently against each other.."