by the roadside wildness

in the dream
my skin had holes just like the tomatoes
and wriggling inside them
were worms (more like cabbage moth worms
than tomato hornworms)
and i pluck them, not as grotesque as it sounds,
morejust kind of business as usual – same way one
would brush their hair or floss their teeth)
out one by one
some making holes where they go into the skin
and some also making holes where they emerge
_______
those biscuits i say of the biscuit truck
repeating my last night’s statement
for the benefit of the bread-baker (tim) who
wasn’t there at the time ain’t got nothin
on this bread
and i back-forth saw off another slice
from the round loaf of sprouted
quinoa/amaranth/millet
and tim tells us about
the steam injectors on commercial bread ovens
and how a dutch oven creates steam
which makes those cripsy crusty edges
_______

the wide open front door at 303 glenwood
and, just inside, polina pushing a sparkly pipe cleaner
through the clear water filter tube
and how there is comedy in this situation
something endearing 
and delightful and how
polina keeps setting out nectarine slices
and cucumber wedges with salt sprinkled on top
and pieces of toast cut into snack size
with butter spread across the top
and then paul fills a bowl with grapes
and i don’t know how to name this kind of welcoming
but it’s one that never goes unnoticed
_______

costume change! i announce iko’s switch
from zebra striped tank top to
sundress with pink shapes
and later she shows me
the postcard that looks like a cakeslice
and smells like one too (how she holds it up
for me to sniff and how i ask if i should chomp it
and how she shares that she thought the postcard writer
they thought was perhaps pretend
until the postcard appeared with the name bucky signed on it)

_______

like your laundry on the line cynthia says
about bringing a certain kind of care/attention/beauty
to everything we do in a day
(and the weirdness of calling it ‘work’ – like,
if we’re doing it right, we wouldn’t call it that)
and somehow in this
she names the thing i find impossible to describe
but usually refer to as some sort of
intentionality or attention to aesthetic detail

_______
i used to say that art was a by-product
of a well-lived/designed life
cynthia says as we
up/down our way along highway W closing in
on the farm we call home
_______

the glimmer of stickers
as emory and i sit with his chart and mark
the boxes for ‘in bed by 9 with big light out’ and 
‘feed jack’ and ‘brush/floss twice/day’

_______

wanna come chase the sun with me
i ask mica as the coppering light 
finds its way in through the back doors
and west-facing kitchen window
_______
that’s the meadow katydid mica says
while i try to point out the sound
(using interpretive body motion to
indicate its chittering and rise/fall in pitch sounds)
in the sea of insect noise 
that surrounds us
_______
things to pause in silence for:
(1) the great molten perfectly round roundness’s last edge
eclipsed by horizon – the few moments in a day
that the earth reveals its movement
(2) the trot of a fox i spot against white rock
ahead of us on gravel road and how s/he
appears to have disappeared back into the wild tall growing things
but then appears again back out on the road
several times before its dark shape finally fully
is swallowed by the
roadside wildness 

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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