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Jigsaw puzzle of greenery, the trees
Nestle next to each in the
slicing sideways light of sunset.
The yard in the back is filled with it,
Filled with the late late summer side slant
of sun,
The plastic Adirondack chairs, left, as we left them,
Me, looking at you, maybe my feet
in your lap...
No, it wasn’t us that set them ajar.
The one time we sat there, your discomfort
Grated on my tranquil storybook
Vision, of us sitting
in the sun,
The Wine,
so we went inside.

Now I see them, those pretend plastic,
Pale blue, light blue to match
The house,
chairs of ease,
One chair looking at the other, while
the other stares off into
We meant to build a fire that
Summer, a fire pit
evening of
But, I saw your dis-ease.
Was it the heat? The drone
of the bugs?
The chance of a gnat,
Landing in your

Or was it,…something
Something not found
in the sideways slant of
cooling air.
Was it, something
else, off
in that horizon,
by the pale blue, the light
Blue house.
cutting your sight
from the road.

It must have been, because, you said
Goodbye, several times
That summer.  A nod, a
kiss, and you were
in your mind,
because you never
left, but sat in your uncomfortable
Sadness of not
Belonging here, or
Where you thought;
Wistful plans set,  a
Blaze, not by
Midnight cords of wood
in a pile among the
Set ablaze by whimsy,
A promise,  not

So, we sat that summer,
and watched the flowers in the
pots bloom,
and the rains carry one
And the gnats gnatting
as gnats do,
Cannon balling into pinot,
taking  up
Residence, in that
Pale blue, light blue
With plastic mountain
On the lawn.

Those chairs,
Those, Adirondack chairs
Still sit, still sit askew, still
sit, in the slanting light,
Still sit, waiting,
as I do,
For a time
Things, will be right
with the
We must get, to
the other side, of
That Summer.
Let the snow pile high,
on those Chairs,
Get to, the whimsy, and
the Promise.
Watch down the
road, for a time to
travel, and not sit,
in uncomfortable
Askew in plastic
I was safe from the I-gotta-go conversation, for now...
Sun dots the oak canals of
His skin.
The branches wander,
Speaking to their neighbor,
They are all up in the Elm’s height,
Who is busy reaching for the sky.
Hello the sun, pokes through,
Coloring the trunk in grey highlights,
The brown gone ashen with age,
With time,
A long time stood, with small
Flowering beings at its base
Sheltered from the
Hello sun.
Picking up light from the
Sideway rays of late
Afternoon in June,
His skin feels the
Newness fading to summer
As July stills the breezes to heat,
But now, new sun and the coolness of Spring,
Highlight the canals of his skin.
That’s another story timing the pace to match the waste of time
She makes a box of remembered sounds catapulting across the room
And stores them in measured rows of lines of time with tentacles reaching the floor
Its not the seemingly nonsense that drives her to beserk-dom but the seemingly sense it all makes
Take that and that she says and jousts her thoughts into the paper lid that forms the tray of her mind
Pulling it out like drawers in the mortuary the morgue the home of the funeral director and associates
Examining it like the rock collection of her youth the butterfly cases of the PhD the recipes snipped clipped
But that’s another story
This story speaks of wasted time lounging on chairs and couches in front of firelight and TV ions
The dryer rocks the clothes dry the washer beats it clean knocking the detergent to the floor
It needs to be balanced that’s all but how how to balanced she’s not the tools
The fridge ice frozen in the line and the disposal as well stopped in time no action from either all quiet
She’ll do it later get the guy who fixes things to come by and not fix it but says next time
And fixes something not broke and charges her anyway and cleans the gutters but sweeps the yard instead
Its this nonsense that makes the most sense padding around in hospital socks non slip to slip into his arms
What do you think a movie and dinner or just the *** you know the blood won't flow to both
And she hops on and hears her stomach growl it’s a trade he’ll do it next time the movie she means
The dinner ingredients dry up in the frozen fridge and she muscles the dryer to clean the vent
She’ll get the guy to come fix it but he doesn’t do appliances so he’ll fix something else that’s not broken
And says I wont charge you as much this time I’ll bring the brush to clean out the dryer so it can rock the clothes
But that’s the story the other story of her tender soft spots making memories in boxes pulled out like drawers
Her drawers on the floor as he rocks her like clothes in the dryer around and around up and down tumbled and dried
Moist to the fingertips her memories linger scent upon scent crouching to see why the fridge is frozen
Under the peas and the tiny ice tray frozen in dinosaur shapes are piles of ice in bags awaiting the storm
Take it all out take it all to the counter and you tube the answer to the quest but end up couched crouching
Not seeing what the camera shows so she’ll call the guy and he’ll help her put the peas back and not charge at all
This time
Why think you worthy, why think you of any,
any worth.
You think because you hold her heart, you have
You do not hold her heart, you squeeze the she
Blood red upon the shelf, as safe keeping,
Bidding the time when you wish to pet it.

But worthy, you are not worthy.
But you think not of the worth of a woman,
But of the worth of a woman speared upon your,
How she would lay in the light of your bed, and your
Upon her
Would make her worth,
Would make her worthy
Of you.
But you are not worthy, you are not worthy of her
Her joyous shine and the glow of her hair in her
She allows your eyes upon her to take the glory
That you rest upon her in your unguarded truce.
You have, not idea the power in her radiance ,but the world,
The world knows her worth,
As you in your un-keen eye light upon a beauty you think is
Not yours.
You are not worthy,
You are not worthy.
I’ve got to get so far past you the birds run out of breath.
I need to push you to the utmost of unimportants that the dust turns into dirt.
I toss filed forgotten newspaper clippings from stories told that are not here or there or where,
My heart resides today.
I toss them,
Yet, find them,
Hobbling in my chest when the trash goes to the curb.
Why can’t you go away?
What makes the memories stay
Stuck on the wings of breathless pigeons masquerading as doves,
Free in their flight through dusty olives groves of romantic storytellers?
Why can’t he go away?
What makes his memories stay
When he has to go?
Go with him, memory bird.
Go with him, dust mites on papered tales.
Take your ***** newspaper to build a musty nest and go so far past me
You run out of breath.
Every time you go away,
I get older.
Please, won’t you stay?
Time marches on, day
after day,
each time you go away.
Won’t you stay?
My wrinkles get deeper,
my eyes, not as bright,
Each time
you hit the highway. Please,
Won’t you stay?
Ankles get swelled,
Eyes droop,
And, I won’t mention
What else,
Goes astray
When you are away.
If you stay,
I won’t notice
The march of time,
That’s all.
I won’t get old,
If you don’t
I am curled in your dreams, waiting,
Awaiting your return to this realm,
Spending the hours you sleep
Dreaming of our tomorrows, when,
Awake at the same time, we touch,
Caress and I hold the phantom of your body missing from my life.
I pray, and I plead, barter with the universe and gods
To put us in the common air, common landscape of each other's skin.
I want to touch that skin,
To match it to words from my lips
That glide over your softest response,
The distance vanished and the firm rise of your amore.
Taste and scent memories to fill the empty times that you sleep
While I, in my daylight life, live without you.
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