|
It was a Bill Evans piano piece with the boots up on a
cubicle desk that got me following ice skater curves in my
mind. MY mind, so black paper, gold ink. Not gold like
money but gold like experience in your heart's mechanics.
Minutes waterfalled over my shoulders, as if someone cared.
Lazy piano swirling into clouds of breath, though the
pavement's melting outside. A phone exchanges rings and
vows across the hall, a small ceremony, I assure you.
Hopeful for tomorrow? Can't say. Not through with today.
I'm waiting for the murderer to come and strangle the green
out of the leaves. Beaches can't empty fast enough. My
sweaters are waiting. Yarn mittens? Get knittin'.
Rattlebone sticks to crack my boots on the rocky trails
around the pond. Newspaper colored days and orange sky
nights, pregnant with blizzards, can't come soon enough.
Coltrane blows in, telling me it's wonderful. Tasting my
sweat on her skin is wonderful. Blowing out candles and
smearing the honey-hued wax is wonderful. A reason for
quilts is wonderful. I can't get rid of mercury fast
enough. Isn't there a sale? No sails. It pales when the
'trane rattles the tracks, shivers our backs. Reeds of
gold. Cursive on the air.
Simple curves for fingers to trace. Eggplant round and
full. I lose myself in a walk around her memory, breathing
in her copper and chestnut, tasting her bramble bush,
taking a dip in her hot pool. And there's no way I can push
the glass wider to force the sand through quick enough to
get me back home.
It's crows on the wire watching, watching, waiting for the
wheat to spit out a rabbit and a truck to pay no never
mind. It's gas stations and rusty Coke signs tapping out
brush strokes on your brain. She's drinking and you're
sweating, and she's sweating and you're drinking her in.
It's ankles in the wind and an old convertible you don't
even own, with a fuzzy rabbit's foot on the keychain.
I can't say it any other way. Phone's pregnant before the
wedding. Where's the ring? Gold sweaters and newspapers in
our future, I'll say that much. Candlelight eggplant crow
sweat. Bop. Done.
|