Frost hard, 1988: a vibrant world sharp & again familiar.
We are there with growing legs feeling huh for modern nostalgia.
The old bulbs warm before they really burn
in a small apartment housing six.
I still believe in connected turns, creation & getting away with thinking.
I try not to make words on hold become a poem about a poem.
My ear sticks, sleeps in the now
as I eat dinner with the mapmaker’s ghost who hides her smile to touch the spill.
I have the urge to race the past to a perfect city
or some other recent obsession.
I’ll say no more as it would imply there was a danger once.
The is not a word, but a bridge to darker fruit enmeshed in fields of whatever wreckage I have likely been.
Sink it—deep-washed by sustained dream-history, dared & shared again. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ll ask if you heal & haunt. Don’t guess.
What you have made space for has left scented fingerprints on a cloud braised brightly across such a deceptively long time. Of all slow things working there’s more than one stalling plot-- powers within circumstance, resources of private resolution.
It’s only surface off mirrors mustering my reflection, & I’m itching to finally eat smoke drifting from the archives.