The paradigm shift, I am shift, real plates groaning flat slow centuries of momentum and light pours in. Christmas roses bloom in the wide cold yard, I brought them back.
- Cast iron frying pan
- Small apples
- Wood smoke fire
- The pipes
He makes me hot tea with honey for the animal in my throat, and rubs one splinter out of my knot of pain. The eyes in his head are warm and always surprised open kind. Huffing gasoline from a tiny stick that helped him pour into my empty car. Petting my head on his shoulder warm I love to breathe there. My voice goes to the ceiling.
But I cannot be too careful, says the beak in my ear. With my particular limitations and waves of fluttering lips tumbling down from my ribs, a bowed hush. It leaves me a bit woozy and that's woozy and I know this: I will be near him.
- Pentacostal tongues
The coffee burns. I'm getting work done, like a strong colt my legs are eating the road - it's worthwhile here. The coffee waits for me to swallow. A Parisian winter street sings me, a memory from another winter. Voices in the air tell me we can walk right into it, voices of the air from across time, the globe, space. We can walk into it now, now