Twenty-nine anticipatory lines
Posted: May 7th, 2007, 2:09 pm
Twenty-nine anticipatory lines:
His feet stood in stark contrast to his lips—
his soles on fiery crumbs of quartz and sun
with iced relief in waterfalls, cup to mouth to soul—
cracking ice by calculated mandibular waves—
as he walked judiciously along the strand
where stranded shells washed on and off
like bell tones, swung repeatedly—hit, release; hit, release—
and every time some spark reflected off the berm he’d turn
his lighthouse look-out watchmen down
and guide from toe to heel with even keel around bits of broken glass—
he’d pass the fresh, the sharp, the perilous shards
for smoother colored glasses—hard to pass up,
no matter how mature—and add those sea gifts
to spiral shells and bivalve halves in his pockets;
and he marveled how the salt breeze lifts
the ever cued-up laugh track and the seemingly heavy pelicans
gliding and flapping over clapping liminal shore space—
and he kept on with it all till the new moon black
attacked his wonder day
like wonders playing cowboys-and-Indians on a celestial level:
obsidian arrowheads lodged in bluejean-wearing heaven thighs,
felling the sunny invader skies
and surprising the soles of his pedestals with a comforting coolness—
and he took note of the quartz grains
sand-bagging his pressure exerted on the earth
and he thought of them—the sand grains,
the cracked ice, the broken glass, the obsidian blades—
and of the spiral shells of his collection,
of how akin they are in their gracious conchoidal fractures.
His feet stood in stark contrast to his lips—
his soles on fiery crumbs of quartz and sun
with iced relief in waterfalls, cup to mouth to soul—
cracking ice by calculated mandibular waves—
as he walked judiciously along the strand
where stranded shells washed on and off
like bell tones, swung repeatedly—hit, release; hit, release—
and every time some spark reflected off the berm he’d turn
his lighthouse look-out watchmen down
and guide from toe to heel with even keel around bits of broken glass—
he’d pass the fresh, the sharp, the perilous shards
for smoother colored glasses—hard to pass up,
no matter how mature—and add those sea gifts
to spiral shells and bivalve halves in his pockets;
and he marveled how the salt breeze lifts
the ever cued-up laugh track and the seemingly heavy pelicans
gliding and flapping over clapping liminal shore space—
and he kept on with it all till the new moon black
attacked his wonder day
like wonders playing cowboys-and-Indians on a celestial level:
obsidian arrowheads lodged in bluejean-wearing heaven thighs,
felling the sunny invader skies
and surprising the soles of his pedestals with a comforting coolness—
and he took note of the quartz grains
sand-bagging his pressure exerted on the earth
and he thought of them—the sand grains,
the cracked ice, the broken glass, the obsidian blades—
and of the spiral shells of his collection,
of how akin they are in their gracious conchoidal fractures.