Fontegaia, again...

8

 
Spindly oak, feet buried in grass.
Branches tense.  Elbows drawn in.
Giacometti in rustling iron.
History's hinge-bolt (rasping hasp).

 
The grain grows out of lightning.
Downward, jaggedly careening
leaves like leather.  Evening
parting of the ways, my

 
dear, they're whispering.
You don't know what it's like,
because mostly it's a weak
signal, mostly, you know.

 
Like a weak heartbeat.  Erratic.
How we dreamed those days!
Just dream were we.  Frail
spooks, spectators, folk-

 
art mammals.  It seeps
into the profile - the wind
mutters across its own
eye (lone cyclone).  Clasps,

 
folded-under.  Feathery flame
a-brimful of yearning -
remember how light it felt?
Like the rim of a balloon

 
about to burst...
and you were inside there,
a landed squire of oak and air.
Frisbee.  King Whammo the First.