we dug our hands into soft sand – fire-beach children. my son’s pudgy fingers pressing at the earth, my fingers dancing around shells/pockets full of waves and sunken bits of salt-treasure. we made a mound – a simple mound/a thrilling mound. decadent with shell bits, ornate with pearlescent rocks – simple colors/magnetic cream and golden hue – something found, something borrowed, something blue and black and hollow. a shell, a whisper/a flagpole at the top of a tower. a firmament – a creation – a castle – a mound – a pile of wet sand/a toddler. a dream afternoon – silence, the splash of the tide, the concoction of clouds in the sky – curdling into a late afternoon storm. gathering, gathering. the sky is gathering. our hands our gathering. sandrain, we dream a wish moment. we build the captain of this ship – a tiny sliver of shell. a broken home washed up on the shore. we gather, we gather. we dig our hands in. we wash with the waves. we wave with the current. we sit in the silence – in the crash – in the din – in the storm-gather. we are a pair of sand-children, we are a pair of silent eyes creating a thrilling mound. and watching it get washed back out to sunken bits of salt-treasure.
Your mind ratchets like a sprocket
changing gears, ripping seams,
suddenly your mind sees with different ears
feels it – the snap of sinews,
the stretch of musculature,
your chest when my head burrows, neatly into tendon and courage, tucked into your lungs, and the space between your ribcage amd your heart – cells like anything else, atoms like anything else, raging like anything else – a marching band like anything else, like everything else is only a slave to this wizard – this heart creature, swollen and incorrigible
We live in the literary dreaming
They shouted nameless hunger from the streets. I saw the march pummeling barrel-boned feet onto pavement dashed with archaic names – Pennsylvania Avenue, caked in poetic-narrative. We shouted thunder and hurricane from our tiny voice boxes. We swam in circumstance, pomp, and pop culture. We swelled with pageantry, with the radiance of a crown not blatantly visible. We braced our ribcages for the spectacle. We paced through a parade, through titles and embossed penmanship. We wandered through the television, through the wash of blitz and brawn. We were no longer just a city, but a shout still ringing clear. We were no longer just a people, but a shout still ringing clear.
The beasts with fumbled roars, with aimless oars cackling through the Chesapeake. Peering, pining, purpling and vision-less. Curdled, crowning, coupled with charisma and cliche. Here we go, leaving the milk out. Here we are, drinking the sour cream.