Hot and grumbling, the sky had to crack;
empty its belly into the cool —
where nothing waits and nothing hurries.
Behind the weather it’s always blue.
I keep planning a journey that I know won’t happen.
Dates and places form lines in raw space,
along with what I ought to be:
smoke from the mind’s slow fire.
I could try to hold ground; but nothing does that.
May's mouth spills flowers straight out of Botticelli,
dogwood blossoms offer up their cream,
their rise can roll on into fall —
while my door swings. And slams. And gapes again:
even death's threshold won’t lock.
This is our season. The one I can't manage.
Storm tells one tale; sunburst another.
And no one trusts the blue
that peers through our eyes and cups each breath;
then palms us open.
Wherever I fade, it shines.
But the heat works me up while it lasts —
to be spun and steadily blown —
and shaped into truth; like a bowl of glass.
It sings in the slippery air.