People who had believed in the color green,
the gorge falls behind atomic tedium
expelling long afternoon over this fraction
through all dark blast flash not happening,
the planetary crux in the crucible of kindness,
through thumping chest-swims breath knows
the beginning of, something like a dissolved room
where a white door frame empties into a pasture,
where two people went mid day,
small flowers burning in future cells.
*
What doesn’t happen takes away more
than we know, the single revolution
through convergence in time. Mists
from grasshoppers, from under the lift
and fall of milk from the breast of the moon,
from inside the question and its answer,
the queen of bees--the counter-clockwise stirred
by the clockwise, primordial sparks
wheeling under your microscope, spinal
candles curving with slippery bodily slopes,
the built-up neighborhood grated into parts
of ground, a woman just having gone
through an iron gate: somewhere an ancestor
is making her shoes, in morning spin,
light having turned when.
*
Ocean fish drift through tinctures spreading
in the mouth of the soaked river, the stout hello
from factories constructed around furnaces
of hope. Air scat-blasted back into first air,
chartreuse games given off by completion
and the long giving sunlight has as our scaffolding
with the beered-up out shouting, the squealing
shrill religious massive cross Ferris
wheel dipping them down under.
*
But something like a white door
opening at the top of time. Post-war melting
ice a crystal carpet off-draining, the liminal
imperative of sudden ripe sliced oranges,
a missed note broken over and over its protons,
that squeak of Keds on the varnished wooden floor
where childhood moved, the close hello
through grasping of the baby’s hand,
where a stairway went right up
into blank night between generations.
*
Solar wind picked up by a boy
whose body had formed his thinking
carried him further than someone might have
known, listening to the static, the solar energy
exquisite, the tropical bell sound inside us
from neutrinos, the mother that rain is.
With bees that tend to enter flowers
as if they loved them, the boy old enough
to regard the young woman not far from him
as if he could someday
be someone kind beside her.
*
Someone who has listened to bees old enough
old enough. Some people not even understanding
being this old, the flower stalks reaching
ahead of a body, the hypnotic numerals
stone after stone back toward the horizon,
summer wind that propels the curve of snails,
the black box magnetic fields sending the young off,
where a worker felt his face in this market,
sensing the rolling of ground into violet shadows
of a distant mountain, where hours before
the military jeeps had passed
and a man had spoken to the woman
as if he knew her and would return.