Walking in a field is not extraordinary but
walking in this field with you,
the pheasant speak and the scratches on my ankle are inconsequential until later tonight, when there are hairline red streaks that itch like hell, and the raised bumps from feasting small insects, delighted and drunk,
and you, plunge your hand into the lake, tadpoles plump and plum color swim with gangly half-formed limbs into the murky algae; the reflection of you, pulling up a fish with rainbow scales, bare hands muddy and cut up and you squeal as the fish makes it out of your hands and into the dirt, gills heaving and make sure we get it home safely,

and the wildflowers can't help but brighten, downy and prickly fauna cling to the hem of my jeans, and this field is no longer a destitute thing, but oh so alive.

Banksy makes art of some sort,
we agree on this,
flowers in place of grenades, the room nods, and we admire the picture of a picture of someone's conversation with

an ally or enemy much stronger than canvas and

(roses, jasmine, lilacs)

you remember in a city somewhere, the powdery makeup of a woman, tapping her keys, her heels, her fingers on the slick glass-- picking petals off the tulip centerpiece at the restaurant, blonde hair, glasses, and

your nephew tumbling with chubby legs up to you with a fistful of crushed yellow dandelions, grinning and drooling and collapsing into your arms, and

the way he showed up, suit, tie, trembling hands and a single rose, and

we have conversations in many ways, I think.

Surprise, sparkle fire brigaid,
rushing to the next one, and still
there is time for someone to paint the engines red;

Feel the matches light up, and anchor your memories to only
the brilliant,
and remember me--

I looked out windows and saw white mares looking through the gauzy curtains,
lying in the fog, looking in and that is when I knew that this was all magic,

We feel it, don't you, think now. Softness on your lips from her lips, can you feel the moment before you touch when you are already there and your

bodies are only the curtains, but past this if you wake up early enough, and the morning is still just a little bit night,

and you see the spark and
you feel the warmth
and if you inhale if you
dare to hold your breath

you might catch the campfire from her veins, the scuttle of little night creatures hiding back in their flowerhouses and

you wonder, at the waking that you never could ache enough to believe. Surprise.

What it is like to hear opera, if you love opera and you don't even know it:

The words might be meaningless, and for someone who loves the interplay of words, this is an odd concept.

It might be playing on a playlist, depending on the sort you surround yourself with. And it catches your attention, with it's small building and bubbling, and

you (grumpily) tell everything else to step aside, this is our trump card. We've found it,

you quiet the dog, you hush your conversation, you turn the fan off.

If you are me, you have a cramped apartment but suddenly the room is so full.

You like this, no maybe,

you find, you

must hear this, and there is a thundering thumping brilliant swelling in your lungs and it starts in your belly and spreads slowly, building and moving through the tips of your fingers and

you are no longer thinking in words but in feelings,

and you remember as a kid your dad had tears in his eyes after a beautiful piece of orchestra,

and you can't help it, you are not crying really but oh! that is not noise, no this is not pop artistry or catchy limericks, this is talent and passion and beauty,

and maybe you have not really ever heard music, not really, until now. 

My knee smacked the ice and I felt the cold liquid seeping through my jeans,
and I cursed,
and a small man with a small bag looked befuddled, and he laughed at loud, patting the place his leg used to be, tipping his cap,

and I flushed knowing he knew I should have a little more eloquence.

I saw you there, chastising me, with those blue eyes.
I breathed in the entire small country in that big continent with that first tired sigh off the plane and then you couldn't watch me have the hope that would drive the rest of my life (just one of them) and
your dusty shoes matched their shoes
and your pale skin matched nothing.

And you shook, and I saw it, and I was home but you were very, very alone because
I knew this was made and you only knew that this was temporary and
what terrible thing to know;

I buzzed and moved with life and! I knew! that you did too. And I played cards in the dust and stirred clay with my hand, and I whispered for you to do this work too and you
spoke with lofty words about how the coins in my hand would break systems if I put them in other hands
and you spoke with the confidence of someone who read and understood words,
and I looked at you and then the boy and I walked away;
(I didn't buy the roses. I didn't buy the roses);

you thought I didn't see you slip him the crumpled bill from your khaki pants and you think I didn't see you confronted with the reality of facing individual suffering,

and you think that I didn't know that you felt the responsibility but you did and I did and sometimes I go to the grocery store to buy bread and butter and there are packets of roses and daffodils and daisies for $9.99 and I know that

of the regrets that will pass over me, when I lie down on a dusty continent and look up, some things will flash through me--
(I should have loved my brother. I should have bought that plane ticket. I shouldn't have hurt that woman. I shouldn't have played games with my words and the way I read you and

I could have paid three cents for that rose.

One day, sometime last year, we spent not a day but a whole slice of life (maybe the most relevant) naked in an ocean
and your hair was curly, and floated like jellyfish luminescent
not quite aware but definitely awake and
I was awake too and
the algae lit up the water and I looked forward and backward into the sea, my feet dragging but not touching the bottom of anything,

but,

my feet were dragging and dear,

it took far too long for me to brush my hand along your side.

Get up, and kick the wasp nest until you have red welts on your toes,
your ankles, your legs,
your stomach. Honey salve, don't you know.

When your father says, no son,
we watched your brother die but we didn't know how to stop it without, moving beyond our frames,

and we built this house on a graveyard but, don't we know how to keep digging, mother,
you are blind but,
you will fold your hands and read the devotional at the table(isn't that where it is supposed to be read).

How do you get up?
Get up!

(Please, I am asking- no begging--
No.
Asking.)

I've seen you laugh and here is the way the music moves me,

I'm

feeling like;

I need to ever. so. carefully. 

pay 

attention.

It's coming it is going and it is now, look out, oh love, look out. We are the graffiti on the sides of trains,

we 

are looking out and we are a blur of color we are the tattoos on the moving vehicle carrying precious cargo to places made by trampling down dirt

and we are curves, and green, and red.

I've seen those eyes make questions out of spray paint and,

I've seen the artistry in profanity,

and the profane in your art.

You hide your voice, like something you are ashamed of, move and move faster.

God if you

can sing,

then sing.