Sweet coma canopy,
brain bath in solemn loops,
a gentle washing away
of handprints,

Makes the bed,
blanketed by dreams,
rest upon reimagined partitions,
instead of the jagged edge,

But there are holes
in the architecture,
pliable infrastructural tunnels
to navigate through,

Lucky termite splinters
the mind, this delicious library,
and feasts upon before all acquired
souvenirs settle into books,

It's then a young turtledove lifts
off toward October next,
searching for the dry twigs
with which to build closure.

You aren't the
light
at the end of
the tunnel,
you're a pit that
you dug,
and I fell into.

You aren't the
prize in the
******* jack box,
you're the
popcorn and peanuts that
I choke on.

You aren't the
lovely path that
winds through
the autumn maples
and elms.
You're the muddy
road to hell.

You sure aren't
the bluebird in my
heart,
you're the albatross that
plagues my dreams.

And in case you
think I was fooled,
you aren't the
person you said
you were.

She had wild
dark
eyes, like a
mare
smelling the
freedom of the
rain
soaked meadow.

She’s easily
caught but hard
to hold.
Under the grey
morning sky she
jumped the fence;
thunder chasing her,
nostrils flaring,
wind blowing
through her mane;
powerful legs and
hooves pounding
the muddy earth.

Her freedom has
a pulse, a rhythm;
dark like a Tom Waits song,
black like the flight
pattern of a
wasp.
Matilda is always
waiting to waltz.

Life becomes
simple when you
destroy the fence
and
hold loosely to the
wild
untamed heart.
Try to lasso the
sunset or dam up
the sea; catch the
wind in your
hand, or keep the
sunflower from dying,
it’s an exercise in futility.
And when you finally
get this, for one golden
moment you keep the
mad house at bay.

We can't

keep them straight
we

mean well but
in time

our hand
cramps and quivers

and

we do whatever
makes the discomfort

stop

hence the squiggle
the curve

or the corner
cut

Whit Howland © 2020