9.30.14

Sorry or no weekend words, it got away from me, so have some for a Tuesday instead. I meant to include some on the theme of poetry of place from the post about Hugo, so we'll see how well this dovetails:

1/9/11

Everything has shifted.

I woke up this way,

Propped up with mud.

The worms in their sockets

Wriggle under soft mist.

I pop my ears to clear the muffled echoes

That cuff my head with humidity.

I brush off the little sprouts and runners

It is not yet time!

But when, I cannot see.

. . .

I pass through,

Peered at by rows of curious trees.

Focused more on the shapes on the windshield

That what lays in front of it.

A continuous ribbon,

Unzipping the terrain

Into competing fabrics,

At each hand, chintz and corduroy.

My scope is marred by the wet stars

At once galaxial and glacial.

I do not reach today for mountains.