good Lord, if there were ever a day
to lose an hour then it’s today.
maybe yesterday: a dumb, mute post
where I’m still trying to tie the other end
of this long long hammock. laundryline.
prayerflags. a fine mess, actually.
let the worm gear skip
the waterclock sputter
popping cinders, and a carousel of tinctures
and oils. ounces, inches, cartoon octopi
he
mat
o
crit
I’ll tell you now. how it all went down, a siphon
one hundred gallons of warm, dawn-colored water.
over this concrete threshold, these steps, and into the brown
leaves, to thaw and awaken the crocus and the chives.
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3 comments:
I've always really liked the word "hematocrit". It's one that seems to tell you exactly what it means without having to ask. And though I'm not an expert, I like the way you used it here.
thanks jo. and I like the new avatar.
hey I get it mostly sort of I think.
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