the stuff that dreams

Was it in a nightly rite of purple pique

that the wobbly stanchion light was lit

and gilded with a thin taut elastic strip?

Perhaps this was only light for quiet eyes.

So easy to be fooled by the early rings

of baked and boiled dough, day old moldy

but flash frozen first or so it's come told:

kinky perks, smoky karaoke in night's pane,

she tapped with evaporated paint exhaling,

that it's its own guard for an evening stance.

At Last was echoed through the rabbit count,

sweeping, dissipated, with incidental focus,

prone with one leg straight, one knee akimbo

to sail past yesterday and tomorrow's swirl,

unafraid to mark that evening sky as brilliant

in an inner teeming puddle of startled starlings,

where certainty is assured by uncertainty

and that feeder flock full of noisy finches

brings ripened grains fully chocked of nijer.

The slap of time that excites the nose

whispers go, little redwing, flutter past

the bales of dried grass that seeded winter

through the squawky radio static of geese-

it's hard to really see with eyes sewed shut

there is no way to crisscross court the warmth.

A good-looking man in tan pants and a blazer

enters the hive of commerce briskly strapping

with our Mary of the holy sporting harness

in the middle of a sacred sandwich half and

half again you can smell the perfume of ecstasy

and rejoice and let us squirt, again exhausted.

Thinking of dogs and a blackbird appears

prompting a peripheral pump of adrenaline-

this was not what we expected in early race

a chignon of meaning that almost teases time,

the roar of the manila leaf bag drifts into sky

past where is parked the crap-mobile this time,

not lashed by hair outside the serene call of nylon

repressed desire resolved in tinting windows rolled

begalia pollen a mark that is always washed away

it starts to get interesting right about now-

done in by ruminating ovine, moon equipped

and no longer sanctioned by a state of grace

he officates from two wheels screeching rust,

available inside delivery and liftgate service

sensing movement where there is none, whoa,

and a feathered fight for the last french fry.

To be the possum unloved by many at sunset

with a slinky tail that can prove delightful

but only when it's crepuscular and easy.