Passageways

Passageways

Thin, in that Irish way of fine lines.
It is pink when dampened & runs in a tunnel
of contours & invitations
It rebels at leisure & lounges when
it should try to rise to the occasion.
Let it have it's day.
Let it cover the seasons in a sweater,
crumpled by the trip.
Slap it, bounce it, lay it on a board
Swell it, crack it, ride it in the wind
of a long solitude.
Dance it around the bright corners
of petaled explosions.
Let it drape sensuous & cool.
You , with your toast & coffee
and heavy drop of brow.
Always studying my white wheat.
Always looking for seeds
that you believe
wrinkle the display of it.
Watch how I turn slowly,
like a sesame at the sea.
Note that I am scarred & losing
my certain bets with gravity.
I curl in it. I run & startle detours.
I whisper in it. Often your name.
But you are busy with blueprints
where you study streams of it
still riding a high tide.
I am slipping through the mountain,
washing my hair in fresh rain water.