. . .

early sunday morning
and kelly joe phelps' "tap the red cane whirlwind"
spills into my chair while amarettoed alchemies
drip hot and fresh, with only flesh to time the tide
of sparkling waters washing past my recent acquisitions
like the silver slap of wings and other lake-like resurrections
in an unexpected slide of skin-across-guitar whenever sticky strings
from calloused notes get stirred into a cup,
burnt-umber-ochred steam and giacometti gliding up the side,
but I prefer to shove my fingers deep inside the spell
of warm-wet soil, to touch the roots that rest beneath
their petalled blue, to lay inside larghettoed lobs of colour
next to other brilliant beams of something-not-quite-there,
their lettered light a backbeat in my ears

this refrain remains my lazarus,
pushing past a certain dis-belief
towards the crunch of any rusty shovel
in its relentless splice, regenerating roots,
as if to dig, to break new ground,
towards their stretch of nonetheless,
any way they want, becoming just like me

and

travelling down a lake-lined shore towards a pier,
while knowing flight will lead to this:
that when I finally get to heaven,
there will still be something left to learn
but nothing more to fight

. . .