What the Muses Leave Behind

Let’s whirl across a yellow sky, wind it tight with wonder. Let’s pledge to shelter the soft and sensitive. This devotion is flame ready, rendering promise like blackened fields, seed heads popping in epiphany, ready to incite a murder of crows, heckle of dragons, a fold of tigers. Ready to sound the bell that brings back our breath. Let’s paint the clouds purple, whirl them into billows of prayer. Let’s imagine a summons for gentle rain, for gardens breaking open like my heart; imagine light dancing and dappled under green canopies, and elephant gods swinging every obstacle sunward. It is ecstasy we ferry from shadow, out of a  yellow sky.

I might appear decisive. Ideas resting akimbo, black & white, The passage to an emerald kingdom. Can I give you a sure thing? Some solid ground?  No need - w hat if   Enigma rings this moment, Like sunlight rides a forest? What if edges have already melded,  Like plaid weds flannel threads? We could court vibrations, wind kinships into wavelengths. We lift each other up. I could rise from sandy sediments Breast bare as a sycamore, The one down our gravel drive. She tugs water droplets Out of the aquifer, Rock bound for centuries; Drags them up Gives them a penthouse view, Opens her lips, out they go To float like lost tribes, To congregate as  cloud-bank . She craves the rain. We lift each other up. I could sit like frog, eyes  Poking above a rippled surface, Meditating on digestion. When in violet flash, a horny dagger He never sees coming, Drags him up and out – Tosses him down its rose gullet