Sep 03

Marble Doves Can't Fly



Salt and pepper purled carpets
smelled of sultry dandelion fluff,
the sun illuminating the cinnamon
lincoln-log blocks resting on the dove-threaded swells.
(Is there peace in a metric rectangle, perched on the clashing seas?)

The hickory seeds would take to their feathers
as we kicked through their sunny fluff,
I'd see the full-seeded flower head as a globe
where the equidistant inhabitants raised their wizened brows in triumph.
(How long ago did you realize the world could never be that sage?)

Those dandelions are stitched 
into the foreground of my memory,
though even then I knew
why the fences wore obsidian arrows:
the stones in this meadow were graves.
(Did you know any of the dead, or are you searching again for kinder strangers?)

We searched for the most distant date, 
one eights, one sevens, last two digits trailing...
raised DODs chipped and worn nearly away under so many skies.
I alone imagine the azure and cerulean filling your eyes,
before the clouds settled over your hair;
a study in charcoal on waterstained parchment. 
(Does rain still fall from beneath the southern cross, or did precipitation vanish with Polaris?)

I used to navigate those stars with you. 
The control room was grooved and pillowed, 
the graphite-scalloped carpet
a star-pricked void
lurking with giant extraterrestrial octopi;  
conqured above the bookshelves
as cinnamon-dusted scrolls
trailed behind our spaceship
like commet tails. 

(You wrote a poem of hope when I was a baby,
can you still see it,
or did its carved limestone wings
plummet beyond your new horizon?)