Almondina latte, Johnny Cash Blues
& who else but Johnny Cash knows
how to adjust yourself w/o bringing
attention to the curve of the madrones or
the tilt of the Earth killed summer. Nothing
else. Unwind hair into high tides, find
anemones know though the season ends, it
doesn’t mean forgiveness, or warped perception
or the chai-infused
toast of
challah. Holla! Give credit to our destitute
arms, as does a misty island in the
distance. Oh the rape of the waves
pounding Orcas, and its pleasures.
II
bare breasts on granite and
the water falls in expanding drops on the
cove. The faster the brown bottle spins
and we make sure enough is hidden.
This way, we shake the leaves loose in
sudden insight. “A cure exists” Whalen writes,
& he means walk barefoot on granite cliffs,
& he means to gulp coffee to cure these
relaxed sleepy eyelids beneath newly lined
foreheads, and Van’s “Days Like This” but
they’re few. They’re flowered. They're feverish
they’re festooned w/ petals of edible
flowers like us.
written w/ Meredith A. Sedlachek
11:18A – 9.20.08