Julie Doxsee
Follow the line of hot
air on the skyline,
nameless, sweet sweet
dismissal of sandbag
to earth made of nine
million open hands.
The greatest view
rusts thin
from sex with cloud
after
cloud. Have you tried
ambling over the
vapors with
ambling shoes? Cloud shoes?
Cloud shoes are a
difficult fit.
Seconds crouch,
invisible below the
outer basket, hungry
for
useless wizards &
falling
sandbags. Still I will
invite you to the
swollen
night, the monochrome
rainbow
stuck to its wing.
A shampoo.
A scattering of nine
days afraid of blackened tubs. A
shampoo is
afraid of dark
fireflies and orange t-shirts in the rain. A shampoo is
a very short building.
A teapot.
A teapotŐs hands are
curly hard hands with very clean knuckles. A
teapot whistles as
strangers peep.
A fence & an
arrow.
Behind the shed is a
pile of wheat from long long ago.
A ballet record.
A ballet record will
become GOD if the ballet record
has a strong light.
A portrait of red
devils.
A friend deserves a
birthday present and a few small notches to
stomp. A friend deserves a bridesmaidŐs
foot. A friend deserves to
twirl.
Your bifurcated body leap-frogs
the whole orchard & lands torso-up
in a pool I found. I hear the sound
whenever your tinny skirt upends:
a Wednesday-squeal like the monthŐs
first siren. When the ringing stops
you split in half all the way & six orbs
appear in the grass in place of you, silver
in a perfect row, as though offsprung
from trees in the grove, fruit-quiet
or mouse-hole-quiet
by the twilight we sift through
safely bathing-capped. I know something
we can do together when your legs
come back: file the sharp cliff down
to a buffed little ramp & jet each orb
toward the vertical nooks
we footprint over the sawdust.