Of not rust
Like not pitch reminds me
Of not broken arms
Skimming all the rooftops
For a partitioned oasis
I am reminded it is still winter
No courtyard no outward solitude
These are the days we are reminded
How small things are
Dust and rooms and paint chips
All of this flooding the senses
Soon in spring
God returns partially naked
With great expanses
Then covers up all coy with green
Then I will trade water
With nearly everything
For nearly anything
Heat waves on concrete and iced tea
In between, there will be fires
Windows showing their black gums
And fat upper lip
Sweat bubbling up through foundation
Rocks will be thrown at trains
More comfortable shoes will be toted in handbags
People will complain about whatever they can
Sugar will still taste sweet
In a flurry there will be plans
To leave for a while
That covered cave
Traded for covered wagon
Looking back will always be iridescent
Pools of electric plum and peacock blue
Pan and god alike peeking through branches
Everything else is supposed to be white
After some power washing
Light duty scrubbing
Finishing
Things will return to order
While waiting
There will be dreams of gumballs in frozen popsicles
Radio will regain some popularity
Cats will return slowly to rule the skyline
--
3.12.10
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