Fontegaia, again...


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

, 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.

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