all the dried things

in the dream, i am playing soccer and
doing a pretty good job
running the field
but not so great
with all the dribbling/passing techniques
_______
not hail but not snow either
swirl-sprinkling down from a 
cloudless bright blue sky
in the light of the santa fe sun,
all the dried things glowing gold/yellow
_______

amy, jessica, melanie and i laughing loud
as we walk the four blocks from the lensic theater
(down a brick side street and past
the metal buffalo )
imitating the ridiculous questions
posed by audience members to nueroscientist christof koch
_______

the swishpop of the seal
on a quart of pickles made from cucumbers
whose seeds i planted, 
whose starts i transpalnted,
whose fruits i harvested and
brined and canned
as i offer one spear to amy
_______

supposed to be down in the teens amy says
in the evenings this weekend
as we walk brisk

under a star-winking sky

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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