Friday, December 20, 2013

Who where what

I met a woman named Starlight Compost
naked and glorious by the river
and later at her home, tying the knot
under the oaks with a man named Kindred.
Still au naturel, fragrant, sand spattered.

I tell friends I met a woman named Star—
“and you won’t believe her surname.” The Ridge
cultivates its own cultural weather
that can seem to be a caricature
when you’re standing with neighbors on the street.

I put kitchen scraps in the worm bin,
which sits at the end of the rectangle
of lamplight from the living-room windows.
The scraps of our past make a dank tangle
and the impelling smells of nascent dirt.

Above only the few brightest bangles
suggest there may be celestial angles.

1 comment:

  1. With you there brother, "The scraps of our past make a dark tangle/ and the impelling smells of nascent dirt." This poem is so Bay area, so bioregional. May this be a season of nascent earth for us all...birthed from the depths of muck and making into the implausibly possible, the magnificent (/magnifi-scent), the vibrant if also sometimes surreal.

    That could be a whole prompt: taking out the compost. Is that the new equivalent of the smoke break, the way we get out of the built and into our provender senses? Certainly more connective...

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