how are you today? are you walking on my sleepingbag? Well! And is that man outside chopping away the palm to rid of it a wasp's nest? How many angry wasps, now? At least he felt badly about it. I had to put on some shoes for his benefit. Wishing I wasn't the only one, now. Where are you? How is that voice of yours? Mine is low and cathartic. Which isn't a problem. Imagining summer squashes cooked in butter. Imagining you & I, in butter. My bruised arm, permission to leave the desert. How is summer anywhere? Is it turned to fall, yet? Where are my cousins & friends? Should I go ahead and look for them? Where's my sweet dog? Is she wondering after me? What about the rush of a train just going by? The fear of the rails beneath, the seismic moans into me? The wet earth? The hard, brown clay? My own moon away? And the pools, the soft rocks and the blisters caused only by shoes. Shoeless, maybe a wasp underfoot could be, or a snake, or a tarantula ant. The little bloods of fire ant. My body wants me to fill it. I feel the same. I suppose rescue is the only word. But I need nothing, just a cloud to float me away. The night is warm but the day is here, & earthly pungent.
