Seven True Stories
divided highway
late night, coming in my lane
head lights, a story
*
the sky and I,
both of us opening—
peal of unrung bells
*
the old cottonwood
tell me, when is the last time
you climbed it?
*
that ornery face,
yep, I folded it up,
put it in a safe place
*
laying in the grass
our bodies altars—
gold leaf offerings
*
everything shimmering
how could I not French kiss
the chill air
*
that bird, wonder if
he too gets so stunned by sky
he forgets how to sing
That’s interesting, I want to read it as one story with seven parts and then I try to read it as seven separate stories. I love the title, which is probably responsible for this variety of perception. I think you intend it as separate true stories, but whatever, it is intriguing to toy with them. That first one sets up the collision, and the rest are sparks, glowing embers, memories. Lovely.
“…how could I not French kiss/the chill air” ahhh…. tres sublime!
and you get a gold star by your name for using “ornery.”