life spills through us
like copper in a mine
and this birthday I am varicose
with time, content in its mesas,
three dreams each little more than
a narrated color and the idea
of a reunification of idolatry
and idleness. it is stone fruit season
and I like every plum's peel's bitter tartness,
even the watery or sweet ones, though of course one
hopes for flavor in the flesh as well, not just
an intricate cell for rain. forgive me;
too long from writing it rushes back
like a tree's first bloom and falls immediately
to make room for the next; this
is the abundance of blossoms, their giving
that is receiving. it's giving blossoms,
this june; blossoms and mushrooms and
play in a dry riverbed; a feast for slow
attentions delightfully enclothed in being;
an indulgence with its eye on giving,
its hand on the tiller of time.