Open Field Poetics

plucking
precious
notes
from each string
Suspended
so delicious
with delicate precision
Basting color
in
arching sweeps
Flamenco skirts
their red
dusty flavor.
these come these come
and I am lost
my voice is small
my voice is
growing smaller

At Night I'm Still a Child

At night I am still a child.
My mind studies the day a million miles from my body's desire to sleep. Restless, weary, tied up and tied down by strained, stressed and knotted blankets- my eyes remain the amber attraction of floating particles, illuminated in a copper stream above my bed.

The cold smell of blue moon rays, piercing through my sheets, bursts into fruit flavored nostalgia.

The foggy lamp light outside my cold bedroom encloses the night in a hazy shroud, not unlike the spindly exhalation of a wet breath against a cotton candy sky.

Reaching toward the thick light, my hand is precariously encased in saran wrap glass.

I bend and I fold outward,
downward,
toward the spongy landscape of cherry blossom grass and sparkling clean footprints, rising like Lego blocks and checkering the scene for miles.