Insistent sun

bleaching hope

into fossils and fables,

our balled-up thunder

rolls over tender valleys

and we stop trying

to see the ideal

in someone else;

light crackles static

all over the floor

up through fingers

pushing everyone away –

you’re better off

without my crazy times

though I’ll miss the embraces

for what they were: grounding

and entirely made-up.

A mountain can erase

a small community at the tip of a fern

with just a shadow.

–

I can’t make the leap

from frond to the present

without vast calculations

beyond my reckoning

… but I’m happy just to gape

with a little manic joy

at the embarrassment we all are

as humans, lesser than fiddleheads.

I barely thought about waffles

the whole time I was with

conifers of the deep woods,

though I admit

the ridges and sticky sap

made me wistful

for breakfast nooks

and pajamas.

This afternoon was

a perfect circle

with jagged edges

comprised of vintage

National Geographic

boobs, 70-year-old maps,

and helpful advice

for the docile housewife

and man-about-town.

I learned about

dreamy post-war ideals

all from within the confines

of a fuzzy blanket.

With a twirl to tom-toms

and a nod to peace,

hordes became quiet

and forgot they were animals,

pretending they were floating

above it all

just for a moment,

and though it will be

forever denied,

it was a beautiful show

of quasi-spirit.