When every sound is mere mechanic,
when every bird is musicbox —
muscular with plucked brass tines…
When a wooden dog
lifts a smoke to my fingers,
loaded,
pre-sentry,
then,
the fridge becomes winter,
and the fog rolls rotary from a
bottom mount freezer —
becomes haze and low beam.
Then, then,
in the scuffle
of slippers
in the brush on a tooth — startled
and vague,
small and nuisance,
some
green
thought
presumes
to presage
a noose,
some grim thought
caught
in the black eye
of a boy too young to know patience,
and falls
in the dust stroked
light
of a late afternoon,
in the
long stemmed bloom
of silence.
Image: Mike Lewis HeadSmart Media on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 