Saturday, July 13, 2013
Everything wants yellow.
The morning sand is undressing.
The blue-green lake forgets its sunscreen.
The sandbar lifts, showing a touch of banana.
Clear glass rests in the sand, a topaz wannabe.
"Show me," I say to the mallard along the shore.
"Here and here," he says without saying anything.
The age of yellow is over.
The night mountains are gone.
The sandbar is free to move about.
In this time
there are no designated hitters on Tuesdays.
Television is offered randomly.
You may be the one to see it.
A church is no longer a place.
It is a sound we make when we sneeze.
And sneeze is a clip of emptiness.
Then everyone slept. For quite a while.
They say it was an extension of giving up.
It went on. It passed.
The guardians drifted away.
Memory lost its static.
Roll miracle of binocular vision.
Everywhere, a flutter followed
by the earliest idea, then a later one
that connected back to the earlier.