Make Water Change World

for cold fusion

There is no elegant answer.
Better living through chemistry
arrived by coach, spitting blood,
cocking a suspecting eye at
the trying times of magic.

At the Hatterie I tried on headware,
looking at my reflection,  waiting a moment.
Different lids for different jars.
Waiting, my mind wandered into the
age of discovery where a cold meal
of contingent sandwich and ale
led to a nap, the nap to
rummaging in a dream, the
dream carrying the occult out
the back door in a small red
leather satchel where a carriage
awaited departure. It was late.
It was a discovery that would
not tolerate the darkness.
I realized I would have to speak
in numbers, reason, elegant formulas, tongues.
All to prove what is.
"What if I can't prove what this is that exists?" I heard myself shout.
The driver leaned down from his perch. "It's all imagination, isn't it!"

Back at the Hatterie I noticed the hat on my head.
A dark brown, floppy fedora.
Someone like me was tapping the source.
Someone was dreaming at the same glass
of water I was holding. Bare-headed,
another philosophical eye.
Nothing in hand.
Likewise the water showed nothing.
Demure, clear.

Leaving Earth

I told you not to go out there
unless you wanted to stay.
Deep in the house, deep in yourself
part of you sits still and part of
you is moving, this way and that.

The train I hear late sounds like
it is moving away to the south,
a long cruising whale sliding
through the night, sounding.

You stand still, that mysterious
extension still swaying.
The sliding glass door hisses and you 
could be on your way to St Louis.
It is a long walk,
probably three hours by train.

But you would be leaving earth
wouldn't you?
Leaving the tea kettle,
the fresh bread, the dog's telemetry,
the children calling you in the evening.
The umpire of whiffle ball, the
referee of 21 in the driveway,
the driveby window's shadow
in the diamond night.

Tonight I hand carried you
across the threshold and you
lived a while here in the kitchen
crunching a bowl of food,
letting me stand there
in your black stream.
Right there at the meeting of noses,
mine scentless, yours so capable,
we touched,  you released me,
and I fell back to earth.
I called out your two names.
The first means where?
the second, come.
Your world can not be my earth,
only a summary of my affection.

Now you are on the corner
of your world   among the
street light shadows of rabbits.
Your darkness fuses with shrubs.
Your breath,  stealth.

The Climate

Sasquatch sits in a tree watching two parties throw fruit pies at each other. Voices rise, a chase ensues. Sasquatch emerges and eats the pies.

Surfacing after Election Day

They stood in the conning tower, bobbing.
Luminescent squid draped the aft, glowing.
"Depth report," he asked, a curious tone.
"Asleep sir," replied the earnest clipboard.
'How long?"
"Since running silent sir."
"Data report."
"One long dream sir."
"Content?"
"An ironing board, eight murmurs, a foxtrot lesson."
They began to roll in the new wind.
"Signifiers?"
"Murmur filters inconclusive. Dance sequence
apparently a learning experience."
"Ironing board?"
"You sir, the board is you."
A gull landed on his shoulder, cocking a bleached head.