porous

The weatherman understands these things.

“Is that really what I look like?”

(picture strips from a photo booth)

“Sometimes.”

(gliding tilted towards sky)

Weeding passes the time productively, but let’s not start…

or the many ineptitudes of today will never relate to us.

Spur the lesser

scrimmage of conversation,

if these shoddy clasps of reasoning hold.

“The terns sway, and

we try not to revel in the flarings of fall:

firefly sparks and foxfire light.”

Most times,

(while grosbeaks trill

and parrotfish imprison their dreams in mucus)

like a rainy flutter without an umbrella handy,

crankiness is not retroactive.

Borrow the deepness of birdcalls

(mooching rest)

as damselflies hover and pluck,

chowing down on leafhoppers.

“Am I different when I am indoors?”

A scar puffing a cheek.

(lost symmetry,

gained prettiness,

the usual avalanche of taking sides)

Warped by lassitude, grazing in shallow waters,

questions arise:

“Is that why manatees float like they’re playing dead?

Does the pantry contain olive oil for bread dipping?”

Channels change.

Nations dissolve.

Pronghorns make a mad dash for oblivion.

(ribbon-like fronds of sea wrack litter the sun-drenched shore,

along with plastic bottles, dishwasher safe rubber ducks, barnacle-laced computer monitors,

and a gallon bottle of bleach—

all formerly plunged into the drink)

“A Sargasso of the imagination?”

“Polyethylene, most likely.”

Breeziness wins. Poise reigns.

Taking sides is out of the question.

“I don’t think in long sweeping narrative arcs. Just in

blips and commercial breaks

between TV shows.”

(strapped in for the waning illumination of dusk,

while newts grow new hearts

and kids vault stairs two at a time)

“There’s a hell of a garbage dump next door.”

“Let’s go.”