threadwrapped

morning in south garden
trish in the carrot bed
tyler a few beds over
and me with the broadfork
in a square for flowers
we talk about tattoosdays
broadfork for life tyler says
i need more time to think about it i say
c’mon frank trish says something along the lines of live a little/never look back

_______

even though no one says we have to stay here
a sense of freedom
spontaneity
as we hop in the truck and
wind through missouri hillshighway air ruffling through the windows
sun on our limbs

i love how the trees haven’t fully leafed out yet
how we can look out and still see the tree shape
(trunk/branches) surrounded by green

which is different than the view out my small window
once the woods fill in
(that, i say, is more like a wall
unsee-through-able)

_______

a nursery small enough
that it is a reasonable thing for one to walk through every greenhoused aisle
and look at every variety of plant
a nursery big enough
that they offer what i am seeking
(snaps, alyssum, sweet williams, dahlias

when i look up/out
the contrast:
greenhouse green with plants and colored with flowers
framing the view out the far-end door: brown/dust field
stretching forever north

_______

the abandoned/falling apart and beautiful
(rounded windows on the corner, signs painted sometime in the 50s
lettering from the 30s) buildings of
what was once a bustling square
in edina missouri
we went on an ice cream mission
and returned with all the dreamy ideas of possibility
that empty spaces present

_______

81 degrees reads the thermometer (outdoor temp)
in the kitchen
just enough (heat) to feel comfortable in this skin
_______

india ink in a bottle cap
sewing kit opened on the table
a fresh needle and thread for each of us
trish says
see, we do things clean around here

_______

not quite a pop
but there is a sound
and a way the ink pools
that lets you know you’re going deep enough
trish says threadwrapped needle poked into a pencil in her hand
me couch-lounged on my stomach
my right calf under her steady hand

_______

aphex twin album that i haven’t heard since the skunkhouse 2000
how it brings back the temporarily baled-in outdoor kitchen
the gigantic woodstove and the places between the bales where the cold air
would come through
the bed that fit five in a time
when minna was still alive
zipped into her sleeping bag at my side

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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