secondary (gleam white bright)-
op ed: the wet fields are yellow
and shouldn’t be. bless the anxious
farmers
                who wait.

the most luminous on the spectrum
egg yolk, ripe lemons,
objective.  turn the screen
of the mind. IKEA, bookshelf,
adjustable shelves,
a bird of open deciduous edges
and forests  (Yellow-Throated Vireo).

             we solve the yellow
             on top of the Rubik's cube
             in two steps:


              orient and cross, coward-
              look at the stars.

surprising misdirections
      palliate these
      inadequacies.

floral hearts, echoic,

             right in the
                          unspoiled

                           ­                          middle.

reflect the sky at the dividing line
thousands, pilgrims, acrobatic flight
cautionary signals, holy outline
carry the form of grace and light.

countable and uncountable, alight
coastal meadows of purple aster
neon sun behind the fog, fading night
winged silhouettes settling at Big Sur.  

aerial blueprints, circling wet fir,
time resolved into opaque brushstroke,
compass lines, body before mind, umber
cliffs springing off a morning flock, awoke.

       red on red ridden their wild throats, pigment
       of deepest origin, indifferent.

in line at the bookstore
overhearing three suicides.

occupied,
endless vacuums
and no translation ....

- -

what poet has nothing to say?

eavesdropping as balm
for loneliness -

people aren’t
making it.

until the turtle
sloughs us off

        Neruda Made of Carbon
        on the rooftop...

writing act two in free
verse with a
crescent moon
and his

       weird thought
             thinker taking notes.

discernment is a special grace-
       that phrase normally would
       have washed over me, but

     the fire’s getting faster and I’m
swearing at the gathered theories-

went back for every door I
could not open

      and saw from the muddled
result a blossoming,  altered
terrain still breathing inside out,

      we are here,
if only to put away the days
we circled our wagons,
pistols drawn, brave in the void.

//