Beveled blade of geese aches its cry
slices the embalmed gray sky,
down the quicksilver river,
along the clackity clack tree lined bank,
staccato notes across my eyes,
between me and the geese as they fly.
They leave me with my southern dreams,
wallowing, aching, desired wings.
I inhale the crisp, dense air and say farewell
to a year, a life, to so many seconds,
expired breaths along the frivolous exhalation of streams
over so many rocks, so many easy, tired days,
basking in sunny nonchalance, ripened fruit
which dribbles down my chin, or rots
in the grass, bar tending for bees, drunk
with silly, wasted sumptuous dreams,
wooden troughs, overflowing, wasted
sustenance for tufts of grass which flourish below
the overflow, on the ground, the ground
beneath my stumbling steps, raucous,
dumbfounded, smiling with idiotic content,
as I continue, walking, then jogging,
onward, geese-less, beguiled, oblivious
to the effects I have on others,
drama for God alone.
The roar of highway traffic nearby continues unabated.
