The little flare of denim over my shoe
gives me unmistakable pleasure.
I wonder how I’d sound as a cello.
I give away my moans so easily,
it’s no great leap to the Piedmont.
There’s magic in a spun gutter.

The sixth time he faded was harder
because I had to use my other hand
to count. I kept my cool for once
and didn’t mention how I levitated
over cracked linoleum when I was four.

There’s barely room for magic these days
with wires and satellites claiming
the landscape, but still I love to float
even if just for a few minutes above
dandelion fields. That’s a small bravery.

We lingered over a common hill
but found the lost years so brittle,
our hands were left holding dust.
Sundance and the Kid couldn’t have
picked a better fadeout.

A funny thing happened on the way to Venus.
A trembling dandelion finally let go.
A horde of wicked wishes mingled with
innocent rubble and the resulting air
tasted of cotton candy- the good blue kind.
Shoes were shed. Fingers tingled.
We couldn’t stop touching each other.
All systems were in place by someone somewhere
sitting at a polished desk making giant decisions.
But there are places made for careful steps and there is this meadow.
We belong to green places, filled with the sweet hoax
of forever and rain.

I pretend to not understand the empty emptiness of the cello.
I’m called to keep my secrets safe.
Before morning breaks and before the spear of sunshine pierces
there’s still something dark;
maybe it’s not really empty but just
so full I can’t see through it.

Above the fluid
rise, a spear of sun
separated night
clouds and I knew that
I had been dreaming.

A dance so green could
not be real, not with
vivid instructions
from sly grasshoppers
to the moon and back.

I felt like asking
for more pages but
before the morning
finished its breaking
across my window,
I heard my own hum.

I clutched my tea as
sunrise shot through the
roof, and dreams faded
into that sweet realm
where one can’t be sure
where the song came from.