Sidewalk, littered with norms of season:
Color guarantees demands! Autumnal counts
of leaves: invalid, immense, at times, absurd.
“Order when you’re ready” rises out of somewhere,
flexes its muscles. It’s so cold that I’m losing
my focus as the sun beats around my brow
like a restless halo-echo. Foreign voices to my
right, inexplicit. A man & woman, the man
doing all of the talking. The woman stares off
into the void, not thinking she’s in Kansas anymore—
a usual lineage, a tired, unconcerned feint of
frozen complacency. Hilarity falls again when
children tug on one another, elbow-nudging
like someone saying something naughty. Birds
fly overhead, close-by: air-poems that I “get”
like old-time backwaters, farmlands, small town
mentalities that act as a kind of Mania in the
thickets & shrubberies of the world.
What grows like vines at the foot of your door
is what you desire most.
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