In the picture, time is a disaster
over tulips so real you could kiss them.
Memory, the more erotic version of us,
doubles over, laughing, a tramp in our
dream
foyers. Thus the blond juggler with
fresh tangerines and small breasts becomes a forest fire from
childhood.
The little men dug divergent trenches
wide enough to hold the whole village. Still, fire crossed.
A more specific rain is
recurring. The way it felt,
then, nose cold against living room window, breath, fog.
Outside, the earth spinning, drinking again.
And always in your mind the elements mingling
into avenues of connected maples, like proper cursive.
Tail of fire, loop of wind. We could not have
not known,
really. Before morning, the juggler's
face returns, taut with rhythm, the original
concentration.
Or, god, this water is wide
as every parking lot you've ever seen combined.
Our mission is cracking open (old adobe), has no bell.
Double hump of water, perfectly slanted earth.
In the picture, your hands curl around the broken shovel.
Correction: in the picture, I am noticing your hands curl.
