I see the plow in gentle spring

touch point to runnel evening sky,

a ruddy prick of light bleeding --

the star of joy, the hunter's eye.

As progress steals the stars away

and hides them all in milky light,

the loins of Boötes somehow stayed,

Gone, you became an echo in my machine holding meetings in my dreams, fading in the waking, and taking your presence to the land of my unconscious.

Now in the present I can find you shirtless, in worn jean shorts, and suspenders, sitting in the long lawn chair with your flyswatter in hand, a vision of jigsaw sensations as scraps of moments are scotch taped together.

Conversations become impressions of something important. The silence of sitting on the stone steps and watching the rain fall into tiny chalk circles become akin to a Norman Rockwell painting, along with the playful tickles when I tried to hug you, which still makes me smile.

Twenty plus years of distance and that time has turned you into a safe space, countering the darkness of my childhood and reinforcing my determination to be a good human being, like you who traveled out of state to help with natural disasters were.

Today the light fixture over the

kitchen table started to flicker,

casting stuttering light across

my seizure-prone eyes, and I

unscrewed the lightbulbs,

leaving only the double can

lights over the sink. Ben must've

installed those in the middle 90s.

They stare like twin suns, casting

two shadows behind me, over

graying linoleum. Almost as if

my shadow had a shadow. I wave,

and, in this time of broken things,

i fret

toss & turn

worrying

have i

slept enough?

forgetting

there is

nothing planned

for tomorrow

no reason

for the 7am get up

no go to

expected at all

a holiday

of nothing to do

& somehow

that frets me

more than most

being a do person

not the let it be

then i wake up

7 am it is for

this creature of habit

The rout inward begins with incomprehension; fissure of spirit, relegating progress to status of diminished returns.

What's unheard is needed, yet cannot actualize into utterance for fear of sea change.

The last time the dryer broke,

and we had to hang a line,

we used old phone cord, strung

from door to window to door

in one of the rooms we can't

afford to keep cool.

This time, it was old charging

cables, daisy-chained together

along that same familiar route,

(door to door to window to closet)

in that same room that we can't

afford to keep cool.

We shared a chuckle about that,

about progress.

I hang the same clothes up,

thinner than they were the last

time, pilled from wear and washing,

faded by their years of service.

Like the ceiling fan that moves the

air around them, the bare floor that

Dawn yawns around its mouth a smile

showing violet and pink

Pink, a colour of innocence

a symbol exploited on the net

by the army of the sweest of daddy girls

thus pink has become a symbol of

taking risks and calculation

Pink is also the piglet , one of the most

intelligent animals and very much

under estimated.

Pink as a colour of barbies has invaded the

taste of young girls especislly.

Pink is obviously here to stay.

Dawn had made it unforgettable.