how musey, how the leaves don't fall. how that tree with the flower outside your wrought-iron window tells time. it starts out blood-orange, peach-fuzz, shaving-hair down the drain, goes red like a plastic fire truck in a fire. pollute the sidewalk with spaghetti petals, angel-hair, how the rosemary blooms all year long, look how you drop it down your shirt. your fingers smell like spice and earth. do you understand what i'm telling you?
it sounds like autumn, the sun being busy and leisurely at the same time, to be stung by the sun's bees and have it not matter, the world-bridging, the pumpkin-yellow light through cypress, the children won't sit still, rummaging through their brand-new pencil boxes. can't that child be made to stop practicing? personal pronouns expand, long sun swells the moment. clarify the spelling of your name. last name first, you know who you are.
ankles to handlebar, places round themselves out of the photograph, time unspooling somewhere along the way, almost a half a mile late, in the middle reaching in both directions with one arm. one was Dreamland but somehow it's all dreamy, the brown tweed brim of your floppy-cap, brass butterfly wings, copper shoes worn by someone's baby father made into a keepsake plaque for the fainting room. your mother's hand-wrung apron string, patterned with poppies and rotted docks.
you're not quite out of the water yet
floating your transparent bones
Dreamland has other pastures
rappelez-vous que l'oms vous sont
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