There are hills

without frames

nearby;

they bloom

with a painful green,

rain running over

dead things

and seeds

I can taste

when I breathe.

When the breeze ruffled my hair,

it spoke and asked where

my pages were and would I

repair my wounds;

I wondered if air

was free to choose

or was it arbitrarily shot into

delicate openings like

flowering plants and brains awaiting

the correct sloshing of chemicals

so that the air, if from someplace

lovely like a garden, would cause poetry,

and toxic air from war zones would inflict

grave injury like cynicism or apathy.

It was the quiet

while we ate eggs

that made me feel

immortality is

possible and that

fear is a construct.

Remember being in the fog

of chemicals and bullshit

that sounded like carols

and looked like dried flowers,

useless except for the memories.

Walk through a bouquet

and come out glowing

and a little queasy.

That was the Way.

It was surely the tempest of

mid-summer when the sweetest

touch turned to a fire

before a gentle numbing.

a flag rustles limply

doors unlocked, awnings unrolled

old dolls on the table beneath the canopy

cobwebs heavy with dew

smell of diesel and coffee and manure

porch flowers opening

waving with a morning paper

vegetables sold by the side of the road