poem 404 of a poem a day for 2012

all my hands, itch

in the thinning veils, our regales are prevalent tangles of selfless and selfish impulses, roaming amid drawn falling star dissolve, life outdoors, here in the southern edges of the northern mixed deciduous and coniferous forest, highways, houses and hearths intersperse beacons, in the streets, where well water might be, potted as tea, warm and safe, battened down, behind windows, regarding each look with ease, the wind and cold, lingering near memory, when the smells of these tropical systems with female names, come crawling through all the dead things, we celebrate, manifesting late October, so full of life, we stir our electrical impulses, we accordion fold holographic universes, we play the exhales to know every sonata, the griots and the mariachi might have known, between the dreams we see and...

the cupped tea  

the witch hazel

the gnarl bark

the elder berries

the tree seasons

the tested turns

the clocks of tiny knives

the burning endless lines

each hand

each reach

knows

waits

wants

wishes

presses together

our inter-lockings

our crossings

our fingerings

our drawings

our mathematical madness

only superstition and

surviving

can go about

reviving

street level devils

and any 
who may care

of rhythms

to be
in order

to be 
social
this always
makes us

take a drink or

rabbit hole dive

into animal desire

each invisible bite

each slight

pinching fold

at the gather

is another

mystery

of why
we smile
even when 
things are bad

we speak volumes

to each other

before a word is said

as silence is

never really quiet

as much as tuned in

just like music playing

when you’re alone

any fantasy

is dancing

a patter beat

of rain

coming in

like saints

gone marching

gone crawling 

like we already 

knew to do

when we came

wandering, too

our eyes full

of hope and renew

in endless lines

each 

endless hand

waiting

wanting

wishing

for a bite

EJR ©