No fog, all brightness
from a Southeastern, barbed blob
shining up the canal of steep climbing trees.
The day is less ponderous,
clouds of green velvet balloons lifting feet.
Longer days and warmer air delivering sanity.
Mind cooks scenes for bitter accompaniment.
Dark wool blankets are plaguing, not melting,
requesting a dimmer view of the world,
the battle which might be won.
Lonely crawl in a twenty-five,
blue truck forgetting a yield at a stop,
black streaks hide me and shield me
in a phony world full of my delusions.
Channels in concrete smash them all
tear my skin as I am dragged ruthlessly.
All of this, and the ’72, red, smashed Ford pickup
angrily coming at my trunk with death is false.
I celebrate all that seems to flow,
that appears to tug me through pinholes.
The streaking black is my false coffin.
I would stay right here until they need
the “real” coffin that encloses the emptiness
that will somehow, someday very soon,
stop flowing.
stillfugue 