tom taylor - the door
The door. Was open. To reminisce your golden glow, unheated heart heat, a formidable silence not understood yet retained beyond its due-date from other regions leavened in these hours sought and found underhand, the hedge of flowers by your side unrestrained the windy headlands foaming with music, long forgotten in the press of days and days, the fluted plane aside your newer faces from the screen of untended desire in the realm of memory alongside other strains of doubt which retreat in this advance of hands among your treasured skins and fathoms let tidal and renewed like this rice cake demonstration from the tube, she swallows this roomers tune and fashion, tears asided, let between and you ford the stream unaided like a mystery or another detective score on the page ahead.
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Registration in the outer roost a peg above the door itself swinging slowly back and forth like the mountains the shaman must run through to attain his holy swath. By the third time sanding the floor where someone had walked onto the wet varnish, the third time, my fingertips were gone, shiny baby skin and raw nerve endings for a week. Flames. Unforgettable, like a virgin loving your memory while the band marches on into the dunes. It’s a slow day at the ranch, the dogs still asleep on the white quilt. Old tawny airs resume the bagpipe’s wail and scream as the soldiers die into their grave iniquity not their own but the beggar with his prize of colored ribbon to replace your hand blown off as you reached for the tattered flag upon the ground. From which messages sent were not unknown nor particularly reassigned into the flow of the song, but which lay into the wind of unknown destinations awaiting the train the bus the car the horse the ride home.
.
Etude of the calm arc the cats coming through the dream screen comma replace thought an hour away is too close for comfort yet pillared on the scheme of light’s dominion in the air between us no tears fall against my heart while more and more I come to meet you in the sliding tones arise and fall along the leafy trail into the mountains where the bears dance in the moonlight while the Indians watch from the edge of the woods by their sweat lodge nor imagine passed in the retreat from time’s immediacy into memory’s shrine and tempo. Etude of forgotten facts, the overshadowing fleet of wings at the edge of evening by the pool in the woods the birds knew about, had been there and done that, they were on the way somewhere in the fall of the year, that year anyway, and left no doubt about their decision to come to rest. Here.
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there was a hum and a thud as the people fell to the ground brought down by the barks of dogs and trees combined into a singularity and a repose not defended nor relinquished into the dust bin of history with other, more obsolete lies and tales of the non. If you’d noticed at all you might have said something, but the beat goes on and the pens are untended while the fair blossoms into antiquity with a gathering of the tribes and demons. Here is the fort ascended into mount and scream the ladies waiting by the gates for any news at all, soon enough eroded and flown to love’s silence in the morning of your dove and season. Attribute to the gleam in your eye would sell the tale its forgotten meaning as if some metaphor as if. I hope this is still a surprise and a glimmer in the heat of evening as you’d clear the air between us of all hesitations on the wing of tight schemes notwithstanding hours beating one by one the wings of all intentions named on the license to flood the scene with odors and reminders of the hours on the floor gathering light into their intensity with pleasures replete and said again your runners glide on.
.
Registration in the outer roost a peg above the door itself swinging slowly back and forth like the mountains the shaman must run through to attain his holy swath. By the third time sanding the floor where someone had walked onto the wet varnish, the third time, my fingertips were gone, shiny baby skin and raw nerve endings for a week. Flames. Unforgettable, like a virgin loving your memory while the band marches on into the dunes. It’s a slow day at the ranch, the dogs still asleep on the white quilt. Old tawny airs resume the bagpipe’s wail and scream as the soldiers die into their grave iniquity not their own but the beggar with his prize of colored ribbon to replace your hand blown off as you reached for the tattered flag upon the ground. From which messages sent were not unknown nor particularly reassigned into the flow of the song, but which lay into the wind of unknown destinations awaiting the train the bus the car the horse the ride home.
.
Etude of the calm arc the cats coming through the dream screen comma replace thought an hour away is too close for comfort yet pillared on the scheme of light’s dominion in the air between us no tears fall against my heart while more and more I come to meet you in the sliding tones arise and fall along the leafy trail into the mountains where the bears dance in the moonlight while the Indians watch from the edge of the woods by their sweat lodge nor imagine passed in the retreat from time’s immediacy into memory’s shrine and tempo. Etude of forgotten facts, the overshadowing fleet of wings at the edge of evening by the pool in the woods the birds knew about, had been there and done that, they were on the way somewhere in the fall of the year, that year anyway, and left no doubt about their decision to come to rest. Here.
.
there was a hum and a thud as the people fell to the ground brought down by the barks of dogs and trees combined into a singularity and a repose not defended nor relinquished into the dust bin of history with other, more obsolete lies and tales of the non. If you’d noticed at all you might have said something, but the beat goes on and the pens are untended while the fair blossoms into antiquity with a gathering of the tribes and demons. Here is the fort ascended into mount and scream the ladies waiting by the gates for any news at all, soon enough eroded and flown to love’s silence in the morning of your dove and season. Attribute to the gleam in your eye would sell the tale its forgotten meaning as if some metaphor as if. I hope this is still a surprise and a glimmer in the heat of evening as you’d clear the air between us of all hesitations on the wing of tight schemes notwithstanding hours beating one by one the wings of all intentions named on the license to flood the scene with odors and reminders of the hours on the floor gathering light into their intensity with pleasures replete and said again your runners glide on.
posted by jim leftwich at 5:33 PM
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