Sensible
Tracing fallen pinecone path:
earth floor to dollar store
display, wrapped in blotch
paint white, bound in plastic
flimsiness, to the place in box
and room corner, was alike
To me from swing set summer days.
A brilliant shock of limbs in
air, crashed to gravel and sand.
I had then the fugitive heart,
washing ashore to tidal pools
in Pacific, Atlantic, Carib
oceans.
Do not fear falling now, flower crowns
and all, to pillow places,
as they keep me whole, upright,
Standing in middle distance from
gold room glow that tempts,
beckons and an impression
of light boxes flashing beyond
wound salves.
There isn’t a clipping thing
I could say now, make it
cohere to something just;
the chosen point is its own
reward, its own despair.
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