all kinds of gold

the ginormous bug
(which if i remember correctly, trish calls an assassin bug,
or perhaps a soldier bug
and which the internet tells me is a wheel bug
[which is a type of assassin bug])
i find on one of the clothespins on the line
as i clip my tshirts and skorts and hankies and underwear and socks up to dry
and bring to emory who tells me to show it to cynthia
who just showed him a chrysalis made of
all kinds of gold
_______

what punches me in the gut
as baigz talks about the drilling
under the mississipi
for the pipeline in progress
is how the process involves
first drilling all the way across (underneath the river)
from one side to another and how
in order to break through
the un-break-through-able earth
water is taken from the river
then chemicals are added
then it is drilled/blasted through
to make a tunnel
and the chemical-saturated earth that is bored out
is carried away
by the truckful
and dumped 5 miles or so away

_______
it’s official – today is the day i give up trying
to describe/repaint the sunset sky, i’ll
just say this:
a mass (cloud – thick and dark) moving in
from the north and west
a mass whose north and south edges are visible at the same time
a mass whose thickness doesn’t let light through
but it’s edges are gilded, sherbet-like, or
the place in an actual rainbow between the red and yellow,and before that, it was the way the light
turned everything it fell on
gold and glowing
(which i consider to be the universal signal
for being called to stand/walk/move/be underneath that sky –
to lay oneself in the rocks on the road
to take it all in
and when i say all i mean
i didn’t even tell you about
the lightning rippling behind/through
the mass
nor did i tell you about the jagged edges
of some other clouds
further north and west
whose darkness and discernable edges
against the varying intensities of glowing pink
look like paper edges
torn against the glow
nor did i tell you about those other kinds of clouds
off to the east
that look like drops of moisture about to fall
from a ceiling but still clings
moments longer
lengthening before its own weight
pulls it down

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Filed under poems, poetry, writing

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