When singing is a black sheep among sounds in the wee hours, lightless I sing, I baaa softly, reaching for the penlight, feeling around for a scrap to hold the rhythms of my dream before the last mini-sleep, before my gut is plucked like a bass viol by the morning's continuity.
Without a snake I'd be obscurely hurt as I gaze down at our sill in the come once again summer. There he is, glittering, dry, an S on the too near to mow crabgrass. A memory of threat holds us equally, though in Maine zero at the bone is less mortal. I'm proud to have him there sunning after his slow ascension, his transport from a winter state of grace between fat boulders in our cellar. So be it! Both of us awake with jutting heads at the startling starting line of the present.
Others were more at home with your long gown. I understood the shoes that shined beneath it. Like angels we sat in tiers above you in the po-biz demonstration hall. You kneeled in what we all assumed was prayer, strode intently toward us as if on a diving board, turned and strode back. We felt accused, caught there with our stale expectations. A teacher-priest with curls like Pan's whispered "Well?" to his star student, who answered "I'm not so sure." "I'm not so sure, either." You began to intone. tying us to the blizzard outside, a biblical connection between tired birds and storms. You squinted as if a vacuum coveted your face. Hefting your words we climbed the hills and ran down, with legs foreshortening, to a stop, then clapped. The whole room stood and clapped. You got down on your long side below us like an auto mechanic to readjust some more, if not to fix.
Small Talk In Maine
Blessed small talk, now I understand "Whew!" and "It's a wet one!" In the village store, in from weather. All in the family, different families Sound the surface of the skin Worn so separately in common. The local watershed refills The wells of individual desire.