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"i know that it is not necessary that there be one right thing. there may be two right things. there be no right things."
-Alexander Perchov
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bumbershoot in the heat.
duly noted: the syncopated hand
on the clock,
ticking and stutter-stepping
around the golden
ratio--some decimal we found
under a Rosetta bush,
all of its leaves flaking and seeding
in the softer soils--
the wave function humdrum
of a summer
hundreds of thousands of
below above betwixt bridges,
possibilities we haven't made yet.
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summer is
mostly
work
but it has
some randomness
moments like
swimming in a pool
behind
a mansion
with new friends
when
i thought i'd spend the evening mostly alone, watching movies and sleeping and dreaming
in stead the dr eam came true.
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at night in summer.
summertime, and it's cool
out here, cigarettes and space
on the patio--and certain ambiguities
twittering like the night-fliers
sometimes do, when the night itself
is full. and maybe the moon
will crackle her little white candle
for we somnambulists--the bastards
of sleep's empty pillows and night's
half-dream: the slow drift
into the somber wheel, and the
fluttering cadence of fanblades
twisting up the walls, shoveling bedsheets
into heaps on the corners of
the mattress. waking suddenly, the
sweaty remnants of skin lost
in sleep shiver you out to her
again, all darkness and chill--
summer can kiss you to sleep
with no strings attached,
just a pair of muggy lips, and a breeze.
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that's no way to live,
all tangled up like balls of string.
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