justwrite 31 august

there are tales to tell there are ties to till together the weather finds itself fine the field wields its high-yield crops till it drops and the rain cranes its head to see wither the vane strains toward the wind or without a prayer the wing and there it goes supposing knows no bounds and having hounded hope there’s a rope to climb and one to fall there’s a call for all birds and a pear for the partridge tree two for tea on the orange settee and the sitter’s always starting when the irish setter sits it’s a bit of a mess and no one quite knows how to dress when all the king’s horses go suddenly norse and the morris dancers prance through anyway saving the stage and serving the scene quite coarser than expected as we find the lights neglected and the orchestra just the pits but the bits between the end and the start really made out with heart and other pieces the innards the guts sputtering all through and rummaging brews of looseleaf heart attacks strategizing the hungry lions out of their suppers giving up the bread and having fruit instead or better yet cucumbers or better even by the numbers the whole grains remaining the contrary juices staining sleepy teeth there’s no relief in sight and the bite is worse than birch beer the clear conclusion we’re wandering through and counting down under the spell the well-worn cornucopia of plastic veggies wedged into displays of the culture the ways of the people with their new England steeples and their chasers wasting away the autumn afternoons pretending to swoon at archaic sights when really the nights light themselves with fireflies surprising no one in the fastcooling grass we are crashing forward but there is the catcher and I read that book of course but it wasn’t for the course or even for par just to move farther through the cannon and closer to the spark the light in the dark of American fiction twitching with originality crawling with all-in risks and twisting ties around the trash and setting it out on the curb for everyone else to see