They made a place where a candle
and a flame from wick came up. Then atop the cable spool painted hunter green
they put the fruit and the bottle opener. The night opened and lauded their
talk, - and they were faithful. Solipsism and things like that were far away, -
it was time to pray in the head and through the communion of friends. Far and
far and far in the distant chaparral a bat went and waited for a few seconds.
Not really his place, - but he had to be there. It’s like that sometimes, no?
But time, though it can take a long time, passes. Thoughts reeling back- to Cross-town,
and the old grandfather looks amidst the aisles for something. Raspberry yards
and the impossible and preternatural bright of the early summer sun. Pompano, -
and the Atlantic waves, Tom, Jimmi, Annette, Ruth, Sean, even Natalie. The old
gun ranges and the snake shot blue that was found in the lot. Smells, aluminum
railings, piers racing out to meet the sea and cargo ships travelling across the
horizon line of the earth. The Mana Loa, the miles and miles long flea markets
or indoor malls,- paper boxes popping yellow and blue with the morning
raindrops sitting on them,- round, full of molecules and perhaps universes.
Thick sprawling vacant lots and the glow cast on palm leaves by the quietly
stationed night lights- yellow, purple, blue. The pools- cement. The sea-
whitecaps. The firmament- constellations knowing things. The eyes- connecting
to everything. They made a place where a candle and a flame from a wick came up
and as they talked they remembered at the same time about those things.
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