Glen to glen
I’ve wandered brooks
Searching for my
Crag with a hook
Little, though
My hearts dismay
Could effort swing
Precipice lay
For o’er lain land
My hoof she ran
Like orphaned seeds
Autumn’s light breath
Dagger be given
To the laughing lady
High atop as a
Clever tight rock
For no path could be laid
No gorge to ford
No eye to twinkle
Amidst sun-lit wrinkle
Now guide thee home
Pulse in thine known
I hear the clean broom
And dear Mother’s boom
I was caught between a Ford F150 and an overloaded Subaru station wagon,
A family of 6 had stuffed her so tight their hands were all hanging out the windows,
Each with a cigarette loosely dangling there.
I had packed modestly, as usual.
My father had taught me years ago the beauty of a single pair of undies.
My copilot was fanning herself with a rolled up magazine the terminal operator had casually offered her,
Nobody could think straight with such heat.
The huge doberman hanging out in the back of the Ford had it’s tongue rolled out so far it seemed rather comedic to us,
Poor dog was probably suffering back there.
Waiting there was a bustle of excitement to and fro,
Like watching an ant hive;
Some things we just never understand,
Seemingly busyness of humans and ants for no particular reason identifiable.
We waited thirty five minutes there and watched,
Every single one of us in that oversized parking lot,
As the ferry slowly pulled into its parking spot and unloaded a few hundred passengers,
Eagerly anticipating our own turn to single file our way into a large metal box, freshly whitewashed.
I cannot be unforgiven.
I cannot untie the lesions
Fluttering around pickaxes
Tickling my mind.
I am an unborn, mon amis,
A shackling wreck
Anchoring my finer points
To big firs and pines.
I am a fascinated child
Playing footsie with a wench,
Smiling shyly.
I cannot be unforgiven.
I cannot backfire my heart
And pickle rabbits in garlic water.
I know I’m one letter flying,
B and my C tiger,
Loading box spring mattress sets
Into Ford Ranger pickups.
I cannot be unforgiven
Selling chanterelles,
Those spicy succulent fungi,
To slightly unhealthy social workers
That pick-pocket Pez dispensers
Out of working hard pre-teens.
This mattress does not fly,
These firs do not bend,
This wench does not grin,
And I am not fickle.