poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

On Original Spin

Summer’s chalky first-light moves in
without fanfare, golden only at the tips
of the highest trees
then peeks through random spaces between leaves
where it will stay when it settles everywhere
and there is no longer ‘where’ nor ‘then’
only a regal Now

What the heart declares would go unheard
but for a new net spun for the occasion
of feeling and imagination in the briefest
of those not-quite-nothings before anticipation
grains on a would-be silver screen dark between shows

Summer assures us our confusions here
are harmless unless taken seriously

An itinerant idealist in strained spandex
everyone thinks looks good in summer
interrupts her dark beginning-less rant
neither cold nor hot, wanting things to be different
than these mirages of self-erasing non-recyclables
edgeless pools of sunlight taking on watchers for borders
to ask: A net spun by whom?

Summer seems inclined not to answer
then says if you need an answer
it is said to be spun by a nameless ultimate
from its own body as it dissipates back into nothingness

Other stories on offer include a limitless explosion
and a very tall stack of turtles

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