Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Crater



I need to say something soon before
my voice becomes a muffle and then
like stones in the stream bed.  The tips
of the hydrangea flowerets are blue
paint curls in the heart, color gently
flakes at the center.  Then comes the white
hot feeling of rolling an ankle over a stone.
Pollen dusts over the face of a stream.
The last stars from a crater of stars pass overhead.
I think, tonight, but the limitless
blue message of thought keeps passing me
like a downed plane flapping its baleful
advertisement.  Its impact like a good
person who cannot live up to an expectancy.
The letter carrier carries the apology.
I want to report the disappearance
to the milkman, but he is gone.
He has no business here.

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