Asclepias shells sulk like silent sepluchres,
Gibbous moon sections cradling preening beetles and 274 wishes,
Tightly lined eyes watching in cornrow wraps.
Cobalt arches seized by shade
Rock restless with the wind on this Appalachian spring morning,
Shoots clinging to soil and myrrh.
Harbored by firmament, one pearl wisps it’s arm to
prick a curling, relentless weed.
Gaudy and misplaced, the weed succumbs to vanities stolen
By this creature one one-hundredth of its weight
And bows to its stoic neighbor.
A single snail witnesses the drama, then applauds:
Torn between outside in,
Fibonacci’s sour tongue
Unleashes cataclysmic fits to Nature’s sweat beads, bulbous prisms that force instinct
Perpendicular iron fencing spun right
Aches thirty degrees, a settled discomfort
Into insipid confinement, and waits.
Liquid sputters across teeth from the same hide until the
Methodical eroding across seamless steel lines creates
An execution of words.
like hips in Alabama sun
back and forth
girth to birth
heat radiating from ochre mines
burying seeds and
they dig and dig and dig.
Water's a gem here,
ripening the chubby magnolia and white ash til
summer's fingertips press
deep on Earth's pottery wheel
churning seedling into sapling.
Sixteen years seven months and two days:
untouched footsteps tip toe past
memories unfurled like a fortune cookie's promise,
leaving me Goodnight Moon-a-rockin
in a chair my Grandma wove.
Right past Caleb’s cotton fields, dusty
White clouds turn auburn soil into candy canes.
Clifford Hubbard’s grilling shoulder,
frying hush puppies luring me their way.
I’m traversing a shuck and hull hexagon maze
Midsummer giants lurking, sage striped leaves round my waist
Forcing a do-si-do that flings
me like a fly fisherman casting line towards the horizon.
Refusing to exhale, my cadence returns
Left [ ]right
Left [ ]right
Pebbles shape the road’s gully to the Lord’s river laces,
And I follow so many that my path resembles a Mondrian terrain map from above,
Ninety degree angles of compartmentalization tied pretty.
My hopscotch board catapults past contour lines,
Archival framework like Pompeii ruins,
Where ash laden figurines rest.
Sterile untouched unclaimed reclaimed
Reckoned syrup skies outrunning my words
My waist curving
Like the corner spiderweb arching in August air.
There’s the left hook of God’s elbow pointing
Home, but [ ]
And [ ] and all I see is
Tintoretto’s arm steals my grasp,
collapsing mannerism to
crumble statues, statutes
wretched, writhing in chiaroscuro hunger while
the other weaves
canvas like trampoline tapestry,
threading tangents into webbed stickiness,
caught by Charles Baudelaire’s modernite:
fleeting tease, slow starvation,
suckled honeycomb parables.
Lost and Found
Snag's mites scurry into Spirograph patterns,
orbiting the sycamore
like Nature's last kiss.