ALMOND SHELL
The gray clouds in the distance, over
the Bruegel panorama.
Coltrane, Alabama.
Hollow octave. Windblown clover.
In the foreground, a guy named Frank.
Jeff, Joe... somebody
you know, Big Daddy?
No. Here to clean the sewage tank.
In the garage, a long-unused canoe.
Dry almond shell,
cicada husk. Well,
things happen. I loved her, too.
Everything wears out like a garment,
Preacher says. Love’s
monarch’s in the grove –
dark cedars frame him monument.
Cupped hands perform their wrinkled rite,
a mandorla for Miriam
(her longest night). I am
your cloud-shape spinning into sight,
I am your turtledove of rose
granite. A woven smile
gets fuzzy, chile. Goes
bumbly, succeeding prose;
a glossolalia from grapevine hive
that only Providence
(unleafing salience)
can sail through oven husk – alive.
9.12.18
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