a wild wind
a whippy web
of kite string tangle
some grassy plain
with crispy grainy blades
living in tonal hues
growing orange roses
from spaces in sound
stirred in a satchel
a frosted window iced open
a piney wood chip smoke
in an upstate park
an underwater blue
an uncorked green bottle
found near a cowry shell
maybe there was a message
maybe it dissolved in the sea
maybe it’s floating on the coast of cornwall
maybe not
it’s like poetry
only different
you know it when you hear it
when it pierces the lemon flesh
when it drips sweet all over your chin
i’ve never read it on a greeting card
i know i’ve never heard it in an elevator
maybe you do
i don’t see it on sale at the mall
maybe you will
maybe not
it’s like art
only different
it’s got no idea but in its underthings
no tissue in its furry lint-lined pockets
no music but the moment you really heard
i mean really really heard
the fly that was always in your ear