I found an old letter
I had
written you.
Unposted despite having postage.
I let it age for you, ewe.
I could no longer read my own hand.
In my cans, no-one speaks, as I scribble this idyll for the popular, un-idle, idol.
Casting pods like fishing nets
sewn by hand.
Longhand and cool-handed.
Nothing in my hands.
A
Little something kept on-hand.
The noon approaches and I remember the rattlers.
Snakes giving fair warning: kindly, don’t tread on me.
Whispers of wisteria wander.
Shouting sprouts ready to be snapped then snatched from stems.
Quiet quilts covering made-up beds.
Panting pansies parched for water to partake.
What’s the plan?: he asks.
Wait and see?: I sheepishly speculate.
Why do you do what you do?: he asks.
Because, I can. The difference between ‘could’ & ‘should’ still alludes, though.: I say.
I walk the aisles of miles between your vines. I share the plants’ oxygen and they rebirth my breath.
Gaseous exchanges of my alveoli.
Nitrogen; Oxygen; Carbon Dioxide.
Periodic tabling with held breath.
Breathe, you; I hold my breath, not for you, dear sorrel,
I hold my breath for naught
other than myself,
for my next step.
I take the rite of alternating left foot/right foot,
Of being pedestrian.
I told him: I’m better on my feet.
The voice came through my cans
and said: I function better with the sun in my eyes.
I misheard it as something filthy and smile in realization of my mistake.
My eyes are moons whence comes all of tomorrow’s noons.
Day-suns.
Ræ-moons
floating in bluə-day skies,
stormy and grəy, like your
Sky-eyəs over a
choppy, white-capped səa.
WrittenCasey 