drifting day, breeze from the wrong direction, movement through stillness, palm trees and green oxidizing you. growing all your extra arms. windy mythical half-hearted, evasive, snapping the stretched rubber band of your intention back, slapping your heart against your palm as a threat, or a proposition, or to warm it.
weathered like this in grass, slip-up under these wooden benches, your asleep-with-crickets heart, thievery-reach for it down night-lit gopher holes. your dangled-from-a-broomstick heart, zag it, sailing it through stormclouds like a paper airplane. your french-press sleeping-bag getaway-car heart, nap it in flight, lunar, bronze-dipped, antiquated, albatross.
cracked-back from rearranging the weather, your knotty shoestrings, your mangle, record to calamity, scratching your bad maps in the outside walls. you say, "this way", you say "apocalypse my apples", or "believe in me". hunkered over your mossy toadstool dog-table, stolen records and typewriter skipping.
you wrap yourself up in butcher's paper, where the road forks and begins.
you stuff yourself into the broom closet, hide in your accumulated clutter and dust.
you build yourself into a fort with ragholes, mopheads, crashing tools down, wearing an antique copper bucket on your wrist to collect the silt, attempt at catching all your underwatered moments that leak.
imaginary momenting, emergency exit spark and sputtering out. made-up fairystory swells, poking your fancy abscess to bursting, to push through the cracks in your fingers, pool on your shoes.
the wrong direction is not the way the wind blows. chop your tincture garden down before the flood starts.
you grow things to interrupt them.
.
