Idyll

waiting for a friend
empty
cooling rooms
squared halls—chairs too
an architect’s ode
to right angles—

through sweep doors
two blue shirts
inside red pickups
guard the firmament’s
ooze—

holes within holes
while further pools whirl
purpling shades
of solid mass
making wind
snapping flags
still
light beams seize the horizon
capillaries burst
and arrest my chin—

the work of
genius

underfoot
the tar turnabout
curbed
in bright yellow
admonishing
black commandments

don’t be here

heeding only
the fading pastoral
grass
that blows and sways
like pews
of a cresting church
bellowing the white dress
of its preacher

an eye pupil
encroaching without winks
bearing its mist
upon
the grasses
inching
dunking and rising
the grasses
oh how the grasses
love
the rain

guards
an eye on me—
two kinds of eyes

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