Why would I care so much still and dwell? Dwell and dwindle. I must just be inside this mind, in this garage. Take bedknobs for marbles. The soy yogurt clothes electricity safety of my little room yet I can write. I talk often. I pause infrequently. I have fuzzy red curls on my head, sorted, but I sit down to write and find I am full of topics, I am a star who’s been to the outer rim, I write memorable anecdotes. I eavesdrop on orchard talk.
I assure thee, I rubbed the shelves with sandpaper. Smoothed the corners. Nobody helped or reminded me. I did it myself. It’s like talk about life, I know where it originates, I am the same as any, grown from a blastocyst embedded in uterine lining.
Red dried petals rose brown circles framed (your knuckles), steamed (your eyes). I like the tune of feathertick clock on the wall next door. I feel gilded and goshy. Mop head, feathermost than the farthest ghost in the lemon grove. The trappings of grief, screams of beams jolt red like light. The meaning is lost on a look.
I feel closest to spring when I lie stone still on a hill because it’s nearer the trees and the sky I suppose. The disorienting sensation of coming out of sleep when it’s an afternooon so comfortable and the sound of spring: I feel my body tremble, my body and the hill have one shared pulse, and there’s more of me or this hill than I thought, between us we have twenty legs and ten hearts each. Coral red mouth of the moon if my privilege were such I’d see closer the stubble that appears, from this comfortable proximity, smooth. At my back a pigeon is hysterical and a songbird narrates the performance. Afternoon in early spring earthy-smelling and cold, still cold even after twenty-some days of longer sun exposure. Spring is uneaten in a coffee cup beside my head. Beyond my reach. Everything I wish to do all at once I cannot do while walking up a hill. Eat yogurt, be naked and warm.
Growing impatient for growth, I want it painful and obvious like the spasms of spring, a violent thing.
