justwrite 11 march

The song I am listening to is one to which I have run is a sun setting in the middle of the night there’s a bright light somewhere between flowers and hours of meetings past I’ve lasted from the beginning but know it’s not the end there’s a weekend that comes smack dab olive drab in the moment I was writing that two pink tulip petals dove explosively down narrowly missing my wrist that’s a twist I hadn’t turned that’s an escape past a guacamole parking lot just after graduation the hesitation in celebration heady with emotion the ocean of reasons to sweeten the deal the feel of reeling at too much attention the lessons no one wants to learn an unearned separation but my parents always there the square solid love and the homemade salad a ballad I could sing myself to sleep with keep wits about and don’t pout in an afternoon picnic there’s something in it to be said meeting his parents with my parents and miscellaneous others the shrugs from opposite table ends everyone has to work and there’s nothing to be said a priority laid aside but really what else really no wealth lost and we’ll break up anyway down the road explode past that like tulip petals I am sorry for that scene so stuck in itself the brittle sugar bar of wild dentist’s dreams but no one has a recipe there’s a tenacity here to keep memories clear enough the fountain rock park mythology the hours spent walking around around there is nowhere to go but the bottom of the quarry and the top of the sky so easy to fly and so hard to skip over more than rocks it’s easy to adopt a place like this at a moment like that an escape we draped ourselves in we shelved all else and dove into grass into geese and caught and released the magical carp the turtles who nipped at hope and the small schools still struck by sunlight and quickangle turns a poetry festival and picnics aplenty the sanctuary open to others but closed to otherknowing the glowing safety and warmth a storm that would pass my hair cut all off cutoff shorts and a change in rings we bring ourselves these pictures and we turn ourselves to honey the bees and their holy work done with our own minds we are sweet on ourselves and we cannot turn back to those days we can taste them somewhere in the backs of our tongues a perfect spot that tastes like sun