Seagulls stir the sky undulating airborne ideas of lonely placeholders, insidiously waiting watching listening pretending to be invisible under aspen shadows.
Paper white sheafs fall like apple blossoms from eager and accommodating branches, burned blue gray against the mid-morning sun, trampled under the feet of naysayers who answer to my name.
Pass away into sentient estuaries and pools and slick
flowing streams of brilliant marigold wanting.
Pare back the overgrowth of self-soured refuse,
tangled and interwoven, unwanted and uncomely.
Pluck the petals one by one naked and alone beneath
the overpass, preparing to get back on the road.
The call comes from far off in the blinding distance, spiraling into a sculpture of black lines and curlicues flying into the vacuum, daring to propel forward unrehearsed.
Someday slips in through the back door, bearing gifts of deity.
Brindle peaches grown lush, fat with beestung pleasure.