{lavender pouches of calm sun smell
aggregate concrete rounds
rust red lava rocks
strangers gather and flock, flock and gather between us}
memories that remain are heard
faintly feigning overseers …
and I wonder,
is it the booby, or the prize,
that leaves me pure,
tamped under un-uprooted asters
in the light pink to white range?
stealing softly behind closed curtains
lewd lovers create chasms,
that like dirt,
absorb parceled words
packaged in pretty paper,
then minimized
by too-late intentions,
and anyway,
foretold by the ‘73 almanac.
I know I’m not nearly learned enough
but, everything
literally
is an unopened box/jar/container
of something antiquated.
© aapl 2001