For
mastery; to touch a wrist and see for soothsaying. The
earth
is so small, to whisk a vibration, where names
appear.
We furnace a home, condition a soul, and cook
nightly.
We coffee breakfast, to raid an armoire, and color
coordinate.
Hertz race—in pigeon time, and all day wings.
It’s
telic to touch, to grip blue grass, and whittle gray oak.
You
sprinkle pecans, to roast chestnuts, to bake cornbread.
Its
welkin stars, a TV grackle, ever a cryptic moon. We’re
eagles,
to scrape a sky, and handstand clouds. You
reappear;
and “Where we’re you, sitting and squinting”?
We
laugh, ablaze’d in spirit, sipping white wine. We feel
this
way, to speak for cities, thrumming to principalities.
Its
jelly and toast to quall for hunger. Its munchies—four
cups
in. It’s so much this life, gnawing into an apple. We
gripe
for time, to see a movie, tending pedicures.
Something
so pure, a want for children; and we plan, to
pride
a family, to push and tease. We live it, chopping
strawberries,
to curse a cookie. Its sunbeams and night
lamps—a
porch of fireflies—and unyielding heartbeats.
