Bovidius

Ruminations of dreams
dawdle on grasses I only know as an undulation of weeds,
do they
dawdle on dandelions glimmering here and there
behind the barbed wire, the citrus-tinged
reticulum running
heartbeat over hillock to gully beside a
highway that pierces straight—

I thought it was a recollection of California:
an all-dayer northbound from the San Gabriels,
the Tehachapis receding
into desert blasts,
the musk of it
taunted me, I had to
look for verdancies, or so help me,
the gods of Folsom and El Dorado Hills,
the visible nothingness I had to
fill with an expletive, or two, or whatever,
I was possessed, but

it was an island, the genus Americana:
late afternoon
was on the fountain grass,
the tattered tresses of rainbow eucalyptus,
finitude came with a
light rain and a
necessity to parse
the bitter tastes of rainbow eucalyptus,
you forget
citizenship to it, how much more to
topsoil to porous lava rock to pilgrimage,
blindness and basalt,
I fell
to brooding
on the myriad superficialities for a spell,
e Waimea mea degluptea
ad hoc or hydroplane or a
mother cow
behind the barbed wire,
russet cheeks laden with water,
she was an utterance of a countryside,
as provincial as they come,
the quondam sights
moving
in metamorphosis.

Weaving

The woman writing in the window is no longer there

She doesn’t walk through the farmer’s market on Saturday

To buy her tulip seeds

Nor does her long skirt get blown up from the

Subway steam

 

No, she doesn’t sing in the garden

With dirt making residence under her nails

She doesn’t sit with her left leg tucked under her right

Birthing poems to elevate her burdened words

 

She doesn’t wrap her fingers around your neck

And press her forehead to yours

To look into the shadows of your eyes to tell you

“It’s gonna be alright.”

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