small pile of handstitched hearts

darien up top
mixing the thoroseal
(designed to keep the groundwater out
and the rainwater in
the cistern)
while amber, ami, trish and i
paint it on (thickening with time and sun)
in a high and low layer
flinging shit all over the place i joke
when the thoroseal flies
landing on us and the ground


small pile of handstitched hearts
left on the kitchen table by jose
who leaves to make his way to
colorado today


to the west
a sky changing color (to gray and stacked clouds) while i
rip grass and other weeds
from the tomatoes
(between the slicers and amish pastes)


emory the human shark
with teeth and nails
bouyed by an innertube
madix the swimfish swirls around in arms
sporting orange goggles


we pass a bottle of grapefruit around
our hair still wet


festooning there’s that word again
for the baroque cake
(lots of dark chocolate
and decorated with blackberries and
flowers: bachelors button
trish made
for tyler’s birthday record-listening party
(pick a record from the crate
and line it up in the que)
i walk in while bruce springsteen’s
nebraska is playing
(what i hear in that song:
summer 2012 in a hut in a field above
one of the world’s largest freshwater aquifer
thunderstorms moving in
swish of wind in the corn
tears in eyes
guitar/harmonica/story in my ears
a temple just down the way
and all the math it takes to build
in circles)
i add a sam cooke record
to the que


we wrap metal mesh around the
jar lid while the lightening bug
lights up inside
and secure it with a
rubber band and masking tape


frog and friends books
i read in my go-to-sleep voice
while madix rotates the
lightning bug jar
in his hands


he’s a poet and a sculptor mica says
which makes me homesick for a.v.
who is a person not a place
(but sometimes so remarkable of a person
that she feels like a place
not place as in a shop on the corner of so and so streets
but as in a field stretching miles to the horizon)


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