Pickled peaches, fresh bread, clean bedsheets
will bring me home. The slightest breeze through the curtains,
catcall place whistle from the neighborhood will find me here. In
the afternoon sunshine through witchball glass, in the luminous devices
that call us to a meshwork of homes and hearts and lessons and curling
lashes, beachway-breezes, pots of tea, and reminders of good sherry
rocking south in the bay with combat boots and korean fast food.
There is no shadow in the golden late afternoon sunshine
singing birds on the single block oak spreading branches but
no darkness, just dark green golden with sky showing through the lattice
falling on the counter and the worn, beloved lines of place-well-used
burnished brass and garlic lashed above a gas-fire stove.
Meyer lemons, networks, terminations, train-stops, phone bills
gas starters succulents where chickens run loud, wild, ninjaing their eggs
the shadow is the sunshine and the sunshine casts the shadow.