7:43 a.m.

Nicola spins the globe
approximating the horses of the sun
plowing their starry groove
from their daily bath to the dawn. She's twenty-three,
my Nicola, and knows nothing of mythology
and even less of me. Yet when she moves
her rosy fingers over the planet she holds,
the horses of my heart break wild and roll
again and again, sliding like stampede, a sea.

Nicola spins the globe
to see unknown archipelagos blur into her clasp,
rivers tamed by her touch, mountains smoothed
by her calm. Take all my maps
to the countries I possess, the places that I love,
the labyrinth and thread that unwound
will take Nicola unfailingly to where I'm bound,
monstrous, ungainly, minotaur. My Nicola
(surprise!) is uninterested in my world.
Wholly extraterrestial: another planet. Another girl.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

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Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

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