in the dusk-dark and beyond

you are written
into that song now i say
sun pressing
through bamboo blinds
_______

migas part deux
this time with greenhouse jalapenos
that aren’t actually spicy
due to the early harvest
to avoid frost damage
_______

arm-in-arm
we walk the perimeter
past the pile of leaves
across the acequia ditch
beyond the compost piles
and chicken/goat coop
and greenhouse
afternoon sun filtered through
thin clouds
_______

what is this violeta asks
about the sugar cookie in my hand
with white frosting
plucked from the long table
of free cookies
and urns of hot apple cider
in the luminaria/farolito-lined
courtyard of the harwood museum
in the dusk-dark and beyond
_______

leon and i sidewalking
towards the tiny flames
our arms around each other’s shoulders
promise you’ll be safe he asks/says
about my approaching time
at black mesa
go in protected
(from the pain/sickness
of enduring colonialism)
i’ve been praying he says
which means a lot
because the ways we pray
have a lot in common

_______

mara encourages me up the stairs
to the santos collections
above the auditorium
where father frost
sits side by side
with humans of all ages
but mostly kids

_______

dangerous bird i say
of the white-clad faerie tale magicrun-way walker
with a blackbird-perched
branchy scepter

_______

red fake flower
sidewalk-found
and gifted
in the runway streetcorner glow

_______

my hand over liana’s hand
which is clasping my sweatered arm
in the small bookstore audience
at the gasland filmshowing
tears rolling down my cheeks
when the frame reveals the
bubbling-up in a creek
its waters light-on-fire-able,
when the frame reveals what
an infared camera reveals
(massive off-gassing from each beige tank)
when all we see
are a woman’s eyes
as she explains
the symptoms of her nueropathy

again, i think of zora neale hurston’s
i do not weep at the world, for i am
too busy sharpening my oyster knife

_______

have you seen the square yet she asks
as we approach
this glowing thing
replete with tiny lights
climbing trunks and limbs
_______

12am napping wrapped
on the tiny brown-pillowed couchbed
under livingroom light on

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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