next to me the cave is as wide as two wooley mammoths I can sit at the top in a cradle of rock above the dirt floor a forked broom of sticks and the geology is ours, names scratched under our perch on the path down, our cliff lies below the color o

stuffed in the breast pocket of a shiny suit his paper notes centered lines and cross-outs no smudges because he’d long since worn his eraser down he wrote of her thighs and the lap they made the 5 and 10 where she'd chosen a flowered

the road was just as black as yesterday and the california sunset didn’t work for me my mother of pearl banjo lies stagnant while I think of a french toast breakfast that might bring you back to the page I’ve left blank for you the sunf

let’s have no more scenes turn the stones of contention into archipelagos flagstone streets leading to diamond shores of sea glass where history is finally written first steps wear hollows in field grass, beating down daisies and purple vetch

  the trees are bored and restless leaves quiver making the air move into a wind that carries me into a song of saxophones and french horns filling spaces and hollows with harmonics     the fiddle notes lift the pin