Consider: More things chirp than not—
a fact not lost on me when the grey whale comes.
On the 8th fret I loiter
looking downstream toward the common chords
where all the meandering noodles
end up in time,
that great pincer.
So why don’t I want to resolve
among the 1-4-5-1?
What works works.
Umbilical whoosh and porous I,
out of near storm fuse and fury
harvest all the inborn plenitude
while this stalking moon waxes reciting Heraclitus
as her bloody comrade.
Filled, I want to spill the fullness
into the sky and her heart
What basket could contain it all?
Sometimes a path is covered with leaves,
while the fretboard meneuvers itself
into cool dark scales
the shape of fallen logs.
What they call love,
I call the wings of a tree
multiplied by autumn
divided by decay.
But will they forgive it all,
when every syllable is a conspiracy
against (towards?) the crimson leaves
and a fresh breath?
My memoir, should it bloom, is short:
a trickle, a broken twig,
a hoot-chirp or two,
a dark lake, a fabulous solo,
I’m sorry, I meant: spark, undertow, wet ash, black coal, purple sun, compost.
The order of things used to be important
and plateaus serve a purpose.
Have you ever tried to run off a ditch
when the whale arrives?