Swathe
Swathe
Brief, enormous the dark,
The morn, the time between world and breeze, land and air.
You left a ladder between here and there,
Basement and rooftop,
Crown of the head, sole of both feet.
Palm trees on the beach wave
As the prayers of Sunday reach,
Skyward, sideways, as the people sway,
As the sayings say and
Pit their numen truth to the board of sidewalk sales and
The troubadour takes up painting the country scene,
All the while singing her compositions of silk and whey,
Filter and lidless fermentation,
Ambition, tight lipped until later like
A heavy body accepted by a hot bath,
She washes almost away,
Almost up the flue of meaning
Into a sky of light clouds.
Dream purple as bruised,
Game day tape, ankles at the ready.
Even posthumously she has something to say
As the trickle from the well before the creek was re-directed
Where the seep now rests,
Muddy and brown.
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