Her body is a patient maze of understanding
Devine calypso music inside broken hip bones which chatter as ice in warm glasses of tropical smut do
It is useless to call out her name
Someone once told me
If evening comes tomorrow then this day is over yesterday
Never knew anything I couldn't read first
You got to let her go
And we all laughed because the rooms are empty and the streets are flooded and no one comes down
This way anymore
Because of the way the moon howls at every thing crossing north and screams red at the south things
And the stars all rush to meet us
It is not difficult to know how to fly,
our very atoms have flown aeons to reach and reassemble themselves here,
in this way.
Every mammal knows how to fly.
Some bacteria remember how too,
but they are a wily bunch and untrustworthy as sailors on a mid morning slop across an unwritten and unpronounceable port.
The trouble isn't KNOWING.
The trouble is GROWING.
Can't grow wings or thin, light, air-filled bones.
Can't drift upwards on the airstreams.
But you can grow upwards,
and you can fly.
The secret lies in knowing all your own reasons as to why
you want to fly.
Seven serpents all in their own wicker baskets
Slithering, sleeping, curling and seeking
And a withered old man with skin
Red with ochre and brown with sun
Sits cross-legged on the dark earth floor of his hut
Each serpent has a name, from left to right they are
Andromeda, Cyrus, Diochenes, Libratti, Nigellus, Fordham and Justus.
Whichever found their way out first would be able to tell the old man something
About the world waiting ahead.
As the late afternoon sun baked the sparse shrubbery around his canvas tent,
Dyed orange and yellow and red by the clay and dirt and wind and rain and sun,
He waited and watched the seven wicker baskets.
Some shook occasionally, others stayed still the entire duration of the waiting.
But just as the bottom of the sun hit the edge of the horizon,
Fordham slipped his sleek, scaled face from the basket, flicked his tongue twice, and sailed smoothly between the two errant flaps of tent which held the entrance taut.
The old man released the souls of the other six from the bodies of the snakes
And gathered his travelling things;
A hat, a walking stick, and an old tanned sheep's bladder filled with spring water.
The hat spread out wide over his head,
And pooled in a large circular shadow far from his feet.
The sun was nearly set.
He began a thick, slow burning fire, and took his trail to the beach,
Thinking that it might be his last
Time ever seeing the ocean,
Listening to it speak.
The woods were all shafts
of late afternoon light,
slipshodding through canopies and across singing marshes
of toads and crickets,
dripping as warm honey drips,
Collecting in angular golden pools,
Much like how delicate gold chains might fold over and into themselves in order to
We reflected that the day was nearly done,
And we held hands as we walked back home,
And you told me things that made my heart expand,
And now you are gone
And it rests
With an ache that is wholly
I'm just a pile of thin chain, made brass by neglect.
I haven't stopped thinking about you