Betwixt Williamson & Westshore, wait
W an icon of Present’s kin; perhaps an in
experience, the x-height a proper stand
For a tiny little Ampersand. Then & Now;
Now & Forever, and so and so on.
That curly twirl of a typographical trick cures a mortar
between Liquid bricks (someday seemed a prickly
kiss, but as is known not all will writhe & wilt)
stacked to the top of the Spillway wall.
I’ll sprint with wind here, many times have I
laid bare in the summer scorch, some
days I show my face, for worth. That in
accessibility that yelled anonymity
is the now impossibilty, thank GOD: I
need no one to be myself
under a cloud formless as it
Was, Is, and Yet.
Maté, some sun on a roofdeck, sum-
mer of content. Sum:
joy, this porch with patrons
guitars and absence; the quiet
absence of plans, prerogative
for control of the We-
ather; in elastic aether by bitter little bug bites;
thirsty Cosmonauts sipping mini
cocktails by the Windsock wists.
When the siren screams, we hear
her. We wonder, where, Wandering? But
Icon of our place, the Wildberries whipped
in a pecan tree pie, kinds a mother
made warm oven melodies and
the overture of smile. Maté, The Summer —
The Good sum.
