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Her tail uncurls like a flag unfurled. 

Gray velvet plush to warm the winter night feet.  

Her eyes will see me through the longer dark hours. 

Sweet suede nose finds the shadows to chase, sweep under the day. 

Play. 

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I want to edit

I want to revise

I want to backspace

I want to close my eyes

And spin

And spin

And spin

The bottle

The hour glass

Back in time

To when I was fine

Click click

To when I was fine 

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If all of our minutes are sand and exposed to heat would become glass, we could see through them then, a picture. Kinetically frozen, structurally disordered. Two polished pieces over lapping, bonded by friction. But the solid is breakable where the pieces were fluid and return to the sea.  

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I could drop out, drop into focus, like a silhouette backlit by a fire. An idea of an image of a ideal. Side by side the buck passes. The wheel spins. And with all their answers and their fleet recoveries, maybe there is no justice except for the strongest shadows, shifting away from the light. 

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My hair climbs the grape vine, hangs from the clothes line

Worn black shirt soft as moth belly 

Less black now in the sun

I cough the hours of dust up

Fingertips and washboard for the stains time leaves

The maple turns and goldenrod flirts with Queen Anne's lace

The tub full becomes a wall in the wind

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To be burdened with eyes

And gagged by my heart

Soft and metallic behind my lips

A busy street with coming and going

No watching

A side alley shell game

Slight of con artist hands 

Shuffling and circling 

Moving the object of desire

Out of mind and out of sight

 Enough to hypnotize

Anesthetize

The average by-stopper 

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Oh, October. 

My morning is on fire like the opal and the golden hour of afternoon is loaded, waiting with warm breath for the slightly chilled air. 

The burning eight. Prosperity and harvest. Building and destruction. Death and a new year. 

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