Come sit with me, in valleys
of my shoulder blades,
whistle something in my ear
to quick correct his hollowing.
Be an owl that takes the night
and pats its haunting in a song.
Tell me straight and lovingly
that I should go from void to wealth
where speech is more than chattering
idling in alcohol, preserving ghosts
and lies of black obsidian.
Tell me I should prop my feet,
wiggle my unpainted toes
where struggle is a loaf of bread
and every hug is trimming crusts.
Where lunch is more than padded menus
scribbled with a choice of wines.
Where aging is Vienna choirs
and harps have music in their strings.
Ahead I see a Christmas tree
of borrowed pine, its glade
and mint approachable.
Its ornaments are made and spread
by open palms rushing over river rocks
toward seas of blue entelechy.
I need to hold the raisined grape
of wisdom's aging fruit in bowls.
Crave a carriage made of wheels
beyond the rusted shaft and stone.
Dreams crawl up between the cracks
of silences and guarded ways
like earwigs pinching soul to life.
This opal set in front of me
is scooting toward a summer sun
and milking teats of miracles.
You show me portraits of a flower
and I can't live with tumbleweeds.