into the weave

just for frankie emory says
of the box of cinnamon toast crunch
brought back from the suburbs/city-land
from which he offers me a bowl
for breakfast
how we dig the riverways
with the claws of our fingers
and pour the currents in
from tupperware
and toss our fleet of boats
(some of which are leaves
some of which are dried and ripped cattail stalks)
in to see which will make it
to the open waters
of lookfar pond
reading aloud the first chapter
of a pippi book while emory
fiddles with the new lego ninja situation
as we each help ourselves now and then
to an animal cracker or two
a sortof exchange:
we sort through emory’s whitehouse shoes
choosing what stays and what goes
(putting what goes in plastic bucket
i carry to lookfar while he carries legos)
and later he catches grasshoppers
sometimes rips off their legs
so they won’t escape and then
we chase down the distressed chicks
who will stand on our hands or shoulders or heads
and feed them the crunchy-shelled insects
approaching south garden tomatoes
with empty buckets,
fleck of red (cardinal)
taking flight
tomato hornworm
(juicy/lime green/rotund)
dangling from its mouth
the sonic-sounding boom
(which reminds me of when sometimes a pan
changes shape in the oven
as it takes on the heat)
that mo and i both hear
from whitehouse kitchen
as we pause all other noise (tea kettle)
to make sure everyone is alright

how the smoke from the burnpile
travels a little east and a little north
curling into open kitchen windows,
into the weave of laundry on the line

thermal mass:
slipping into still-warm hoodie pulled from pile of clothes
that, two or three hours earlier,
plucked from the line where it hungunder the sun
and heaped, unfolded, into basket
from the water world:
A boy climbs a partially submerged electric pole as he plays with others on the flooded banks of Ganga river, in Allahabad, India. – voice of america, day in photos


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