Husks of imperfect visions
by CB Anderson
[ poetry - november 08 ]
Tired flies spin sideways in the heat
thrown off white sand;
cool waves enfold me like a love
shared in secret
but better held aloft
as canopy -
those onions, harmless in the field,
louder than ping-pong balls
if you lean close.
The midsummer thrums with satchels
of sly mischief,
and passing birds strew bits of sliced
air on the ground
while quick mice skitter through
unset concrete,
overwriting blank messages;
rousted spiders keep pace
in the dewdrops.
Stacks of uprooted weeds taken
as prisoners
wait in the tepid rain for a
broken promise;
the beating nightwings and
brittle starlight
make a tea strained through window screens
we drink walking backward
watching our steps.
A fish can sometimes catch a worm;
you, like an air bubble,
are fugitive.
