(no subject)

[novapsyche]

The clouds are as flat as a baby's back.
Clothes drift on the line, scarving the breeze.
Hot. The barbeque crackles in the yard,
stone bricks piled like an altar.
Meat whistles. To the right, a creek
as small as an arm, licking leaves.

***

Where is the yard? This room is
explosively hot. I can't remember--

no navigational sense
in the dark. I feel him cradling my waist

but where am I? Why is a board
hard below me? I breathe

the hot dust. That's all I can do.
There! My clothes, just out of reach.

***

Still hot at night. The moon wets the yard
with milk. The fire in the pit
is dead. The clothesline is still.
The flowers along the creek
have drawn in their heads,
away from the dark.

8/30/04



Her mouth drips of the garden,
those raw reds stuck to the tongue,
juices attracting bees: a nervous allure.

She stands small there, no wind up
the apron, frock pressed to her chest.
Rutted rows spring from her feet,

dust-spun, tunnels white with roots
tapped one to the next. She plucks
the plump heart, thick and firm,
then drops it. Ants attend quickly.

8/30/04

Comments

[xiombarg.livejournal.com]

Again, I like the first stanza of the first one. :)

[novapsyche.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I wrote it, and couldn't figure out where it was going. I suppose I should stop abandoning my initial drive and let it play out, for better or for worse.