The bouganvillea does not curl
in the acorn, the spores
of the ferns crowd our eyes.
She pressed small hands into
the wet sound, pulled
out shell-fragments, a kind
of wood (white sand) pulled back
her hair elaborate into a sort
of knot-work. Barometers of
jewelry and glittering leather,
infant ear-rings spider-web
hair knotted with sweat.
Arena is sand, to soak up
blood or oil or other
expensive viscous fluids.
My friends roar by, wave out
the windows (cell phone) traffic and commerce
printed our pages, the regular
menhir-delivery those days
interrupted only by postal holidays.
The retinas sutured – minute cables
of scar-tissue, nudges of concentrated
light – to the back walls
of her eyes (so blue!) (freeze frame) home movie
without editing, stretches of nothing
but static words like a camcorder
in a crowd (radio on) The “we” became
royal without our noticing, an axis
around which we spun to the brink
of nausea. Twelve steps, gingerly,
and fell flap upon the cheek-
bone. He was behind the wheel,
true, but he wasn’t arrested:
a way to avoid being crippled,
at least, so he left the baby – dying –
behind; took up arms, bore arms,
brandished the gaudy stippled
drag of money’s uniform.
Their whines of good faith figured
the orange plastic netting around
a construction site, where March means
spring impends, the heat settles down
on the flats. The Lord will know
his own, our sorting is superfluous.