Sometimes this picture confuses,

like syrup on a cigarette,

oil on the windshield.

The un-formed flock of geese

flying north against

a summer wind.

__

Sometimes this picture is untrue,

the slice of 3.15 pi,

the lace motorcycle chain,

pedophile laughter.

When whiskey is a

throat’s single yearning.

__

Sometimes this picture is out of tune,

like salt on apples,

the executioner bathing

before work,

a fork for the soup.

The glass breaks before

it’s blown, shattered before

it’s shaped.

__

Sometimes this picture is blinding,

the symphony to the deaf,

sunlight to the blind,

a lover’s touch to the dead.

The ground spitting back

her saints, so deeply planted.

__

Sometimes this picture is.

When the choir is one of many in one,

and the gathering day actually

believes another will follow.

There is a louder sunset to come,

a brighter song held lightly under

the tongue of an eager morning,

when there is no smell where

death should be.