It keeps raining
but we stay neat
in crinoline and muffled brass

A thumping
lighter than steam engines

I see a yawning room
curved with all the dancing
and oh! how we sway

Sparkling
before it’s all gone

It’s for us
the dangling melody
escorting us to dreamtime

Evening is a gaping wound,
the part of the day desperate to be filled
after so much fluff and circumstance
has passed through like ghosts
along skin into veins like red like peach…
January is on its knees
waiting to be taken in any hole
left underdeveloped, untaught,
fresh-faced and ready to dream
as soon as night completes the circle.

Winter nights are a slowing of blood
through minutes and moonlight
carried over icy hills,
pulsing to some remembered song
just before inevitable release.

Morning is a bruise,
a part of the day before defenses are awake
and colors seep in the cracks
bleeding red, blazing orange,
chasing grey back down the throat.
January is bending over
waiting to be given punishment
for living, a tingling ball of flesh
hurt and only wanting more
despite recent goodwill.

Winter mornings are pure cleansing fire
through nose into mouth to lungs
on a freezing doorstep,
clenching and slowly letting open
to a new day, a new chance to be burned.

It’s a heavy emptiness
and a yearning to move freely
inside something green,
warm, softly attentive
with no need for reason
and no holding onto pain,
where decay is embraced
for the beginnings that lay wait
in a oneness we can’t imagine
but feel the edges just the same.

At the beer distributor, a sweet lady
with long grey hair and a flannel shirt
tends the register.
She could be a librarian except
for the nudie calendar
hanging near the counter
and the twinkling look she gives
as if she knows you’re up to no good.
Her cage is filled with candy
and a small tv. She smiles and always
has a kind word.
There’s a poster on her bathroom door
of a chick with huge knockers.
It looks like she’s juggling watermelons
inside her tank top.
Maneuvering through stacks of beer cases
makes me feel like Indiana Jones
looking for the ark in a crypt
except there are no snakes, only beef jerky
and I’m looking for a craft beer for the husband and not a direct link to God.
I give exact change
and she gives me insight
into the local traffic,
which has picked up due to the detour;
I saw two redneck monster trucks,
one motorcycle, four suvs,
and three Amish buggies.
The bell on the door as I exit
finishes my thoughts.