The Great Manufacturer

Hours of searching

for treatments

and my hair is still

unmanageable

white and old,

my shape is still full

round and soft,

my eyes are heavy

swollen and dark;

my mind is a wandering

mass of curiosity

with no promise

to be kept by any maker

other than the one

that gave me this body

-what a funny god

who allows ruin to be as

inevitable as beauty is fleeting.

I liked the deep green

of the forest

as it passed over my feet

and into my lungs

and rifled my hair.

 

I became a leaf

for a short time

before resuming

bipedal pursuits.

Intermittent waves

There’s an ocean a few feet away

and I can’t quite figure

the dimensions of waves

as they crash

and all the ways foam makes me tingle

but I like the patterns

that hover a moment

like snapshots before fading away

like when my children were small

but that was years ago now

which is strange

because I don’t feel different

until I see my reflection

which I can’t in the ocean

since it moves too swiftly

like time like children like waves.

The shape of history

The body I was in was called golden

with edges like driftwood,

smelling of caramel corn and sun,

looking like a shaggy butterfly

with a shaky wing.

I’ve stayed ragged

but processed and contained

like a koosh ball in a bubble gum machine.

My doctor had an old bag

and long beard. He was an impressionist

with a free-form modern sensibility

which made me feel like floating

in a murky pond

afraid of the depths, craving flight.

I sputter when I leave the hills, bits of

color left behind like a jet’s echo.

The shape of history

is a pile of love robed in stark beauty,

long grasses, and a touch of grief.

We become bakers or birds.

righty-tighty

today is the future come loose,

a stripped gear in a billowing field

above or below (irrelevant)

with enough steam,

propelled to work faster yet darker

through tunnels made of spent youth

foraging on evolving ferns

abundant even in an apocalypse

laughter carried away on smoke