The Sixth of August
poems from the north, day 3
Today’s air is dense
and devoid of passion
for these humble lungs.
The stone garden girl tips
her hat to me and looks
like she’s up to something.
I want to meet
on the fault line;
close off worlds between.
Not the ones
inhabited with must-dos,
or have-tos.
At the line of extras.
In the line of options.
Over the line lacking questions
in need of answer.
I want them on a plate.
Offered up. Ready to leap
into this verdant valley
I’ve swum for years.
I want to kiss
the me who remembers all
the ways to create a home.
She’s right there,
wrapped up in the ivy
behind this latticed heart.
She folding a fortune
teller and scribbling down
Patanjali’s sutras.
I want to meet
in the pool of no thought
and all thought
where there’s no need
of reminders
to breathe.
Where hours skip over
seconds and whole lives
play out by the time
you count
to three and see
her little stone head’s turned
because she knows
her game is up.
If you’d like to follow my vacation journey, there’s more below:
