author

The world works in detail and broad strokes, the wasps scraping at the dangling leaves, the wind stirring the dust and heat. The dogs stretch and pant all the editorial you'd ever need. Here in the tall shade beside the press of passing traffic. Here beneath the broad branches and the dull reaching of smoke. I write it down in weeds and ashes. I write it down in scar and stone. The ants pitch in like there was a fire burning somewhere. The ants work at it when everything else is broke.

I have my habits, I have my reasons. What does it matter if they are often the same? I scuff the dirt, I close the circle. I write it down when the words run rampant, I write it down when the words are gone. The winds arise, the winds relent. The summer sprawls across the block. The mocking birds fight their endless battles. The hummingbird notes each location and every change, the soloist always scratching at the score. The poor joke of it is written always missing the point. It is always about what the author bothers to miss.

The sun beats down, the mocking bird scolds, the children provide scads of yelps and shouts. I am guarded in this rapt condensation, sweat beaded on arm and neck.  There are these collisions with memory, the star bursts waiting in every stretch. I say everything that I am thinking whenever I don't know what to think. Without acknowledging that you draw down the distances, without saying I call to you in every sense, the inscription loses meaning. Somewhere the world will find you reading this kiss meant to break upon your lips, every sentence breathed and bent. My love always a notation of your direction, the author and text of all these burning wishes.