Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Inside the Little Picture

In the kitchen, I’m fishing pieces of cork rot from the bottle’s throat
as if a little care and precision could cure the world of its decreptitude.

When the temperature hits 80, I switch to white because
while I have two rivers running in me, in summer I need three.

The third flows, as da Vinci says, like hair. Mine plaits, glacial,
blonde as Sauvignon, braid traipsing into whisker, turning drip to lurk.

White alleviates the heat, strikes a fire the size of a pearl,
summons slumber sweet as an infant’s arm, and that long.

Summer demands drastic measures.Heat on, I switch to diminish,
maneuvering a sieve to excavate the last cork bits, my rivers dwindling.

The bigger bits of world crumble outside without me, ice caps I can’t trap
in glass, in retreat beneath a ceiling fan invoking scope scope scope.

3 comments:

Kass said...

"...drip to lurk."
"...cork rot."
"...slumber sweet as an infant's arm, and that long."
"...a ceiling fan invoking scope scope scope."

Were you born an obscure juxtaposing genius, or did it develop from life experience?

Bebe said...

love, love,love this, top of the beanstalk on my cool beans rating (which is the highest rate of that scale). :)

Sherry O'Keefe said...

over the weekend i was at el 7139 and i have to agree with bebe that this rates high -- above the timberline.

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