the singing knives

While noon throws a redwood shadow on the plaza; summer flecks by, and you are almost gone. Your body says, fight; your body says, hide. You speak to a girl in the wind-swept garden.

Summer flecks by, and you are almost gone. You donate your secret to June’s long days. You speak to a girl in the wind-swept garden. The color of my suffering is green unaware.

You donate your secret to June’s long days. I retrieve my guilt and confess it to the sky. The color of my suffering is green. Unaware, you touch me like sunset on granite.

I retrieve my guilt & confess it to the sky. This solstice may be the end of me, I say. You touch me like sunset on granite. Sometimes, I giggle at the drama of our age.

This solstice may be the end of me, I say. Your eyes turn Maine Coon, choked, lionlike. Sometimes, I giggle at the drama of our age. Whose unmooring prowls in us now?

Your eyes turn Maine Coon, choked, lionlike. Why do we short the long of desire? Whose unmooring prowls in us now? We roam but see nothing of the moss-colored divine.

through the windowglass, green tipping to black, tipping to gold, shivering. Green hills, further on, shading

to blue. Fuzzed slopes, lovable, rolling down down. Awkward weeds, sprigged, not wheat and won’t feed anyone. All is Dutch, set out for display and gain.

I’ve come to a conclusion about happiness: I want it. You say “Sometimes you’ve got to bust a move.” How would I do that?

Through the windowglass I can get a fearsome burn. Thus I’m spf’d. I must earn. On my lap, folderful of papers to which I should turn

but the sun does her thing: down down. We don’t see her cooling, but we gain from her careful campaign.

Goodbye glimpse, speed past, the green consummation tracks everwards, lost—

Lost me, lost you, lost green hills shading to blue and lost the valley view….