My days signal lamps and the
popping sound of sunset. Life kisses the extreme
versions of trees that we have hatched.
Life, yes, betters love by turning
green into orange. our day ends
with something. You may limp
to the moon of christening, and
clear the streams of trucking
sounds. That's called assertion, tho it may
make poetry blend. A poplar saps the
space between our eyelids just by
leaning on the wind. Doors
spring open for shade and creek and deltas
full of mud. Mud means much, as do the rain clouds
that forced heat from saturday.
We were both awake.
Now the song stumbles over
years gone by. We are used by the fragrance of
settlement yet we give every pause a
grace of negotiation. I love you
in the yard and bed and framework, making
much of our time as we do. Silence seems like
a chance to bring more into the sentence.
A poem learns from us. We change
with the time, just like electricity. The time isn't
ours, yearlings, it is us, filled
with signals like a light.
