Smoke arises from the chimney stack
in billows
from an untended burn.
It smolders and flashes, then flames.
More provocation
and maybe some oak, dense among woods,
for fuel;
it brings back the smoke
to choke away the cleansing flame
and obscure the fire,
producing words like bitterness and char.
in the hollows
and meadows
you call me with the thrushing
of pine needles to inspire
to climb
and place my steps
on familiar ground
pulsating with desire.
bring me closer
to a shared ascent-
where your words, once nestled
in the horizon, peek out
among the clover and the briar.
and we hold each other in the glow
of sunset’s flushed attire.
there are tools strewn
here and there
the monkey wrench consorts
with the flat-head screwdriver
I managed to replace the toilet bob,
which keeps the tank from overflowing,
but the shut-off valve will not completely
close, giving a slow drip of water
out onto the blue and green beach towel.
and to think I left this poem
sitting here,
brimming with possibility.
One can be
a thinly veiled attempt at sweetness.
The other is veiled with a thin layer
of sweetness.
Taps and Ratamacues 