Monday, April 2, 2012

Blinking Light

Don’t, don’t go
backward, following the innocuous thread
of simple thoughts and still simpler
events; it is a trap; it is
quicksand and rocky ravines; don’t. 


Take me to that little-girl place
full of old bikes and lost furniture
and car parts,

rusty doors and torn-up tires,
biting large chunks of the long-grass field
in which they hide
in the northeast corner of my soul. Untended,

that place will be a landfill soon
and lose the vintage charm of unhoused things.

It’s been a while since we visited,
though I think you mentioned wanting to
last year. I think we ended up
as always

strolling through the cemetery
where small sprays of yellow flowers
long to freckle the immutable calm of brick
and lettered stone. But

today is for remembering the things that have unwound,
for hearing cricket songs from citadels
of wild grass.