Looking out from the cardiac floor the caution-
orange wind sock is drunk and vomiting on the roof, slumped
My father’s tongue is a purple slug.
If I look away from the monitor, he will stop breathing.
Forty-five minutes is restful sleep, now, good. Good--
sugarfree cranberry peelback cup.
The wind sock is still drunk, but now he’s waving. A nice, sloppy,
The moon was a tangerine and lifted the night.
The night sat—a gentle fog— just above the street.
I passed gates woven with southern jasmine, climbed
to the top of brick and iron, rested there
on the hovering night, my bed of mimosa moonlight.
The moon batted her eyes at me. Began to thump,
thump, and swelled and swelled so large with each pulse
she met me right at the edge
of the hovering night. I reached up and tore
a scrap of her peel for myself. Squeezed and inhaled
the light oil sprayed faintly
from the pores, rubbed the fragrance on my wrists.
Pulled myself up onto the soft surface. Walked
in the absence of noise. Even in the blank
of space, I still thought I heard
the smallest music. Following the contralto song,
following faint piano— keys collapsing
like dominos just before they tap the ear
on the shoulder. Each step, sinking slightly into the spongy surface,
my bare feet dressed delicate in sweet tangerine oil. The face
of our moon has warm cider steam of spanish persimmon
lemon peach whip, yuma summer saffron garnished with vermillion
atomic tangelo zest. The cheeks of our moon are calypso honeyglow
against the cerulean steel sky. The atmosphere
a nervous glittering array of white
tiny blossoms. I laid down on the bottom of the moon,
the side facing earth. Sunk my fingers into pores,
my whole body deep in her pulp. Submerged, looking down
to the planet, on the underbelly of the moon. I could see
it begin to rain on earth. I could see everything else in the world
that slept on the hovering night go back
where it belonged on a cascade that tickled
blades of grass and made them bow, soaked
into the ground where dead things are kept. There should be
groves up here in no particular rows with people in hammocks swaying
among the leaves, growing sleepy, dreaming
of all that small music. Isn’t there
a railroad here? With a conductor in overalls and tight brimmed hat,
over the mountains to the place I should travel?
There is not. There is only
my moon and her pumping fruit heart.
Polaroid Haiku: Sarasota: Summer, 1996
Tadpole-mud slimy Birkenstocks. Mosquito bite
legs. Spiny trash-leaves.
Summer into fall into summer into fall into
warm gulf brine.
Watermelon in salty waves. Rainbow sails crest
Oppressive sun leaks in the blinds. AC hum kicks off.
A sweaty nap.
Myakka River State Park
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