THE HELIX OF PERSUASION

We can’t go on like this,
pretending it’s about grammar.
The weight of days belies us out here
on the edge of mountain and pacific time
amid the blues and strawberries.

The purple bruise of sunset coalesces
and casts spells over time’s suture.
The wayward adverbs and gerunds bicker
in the smudged ochre of elm shadow.

I know a good hiding place
out past the empty grain elevator,
through an upward push of air,
across the tripwires of an hour,
a place where this slip in time
won’t shake our fillings loose,
where the yellow scar of evening
won’t call us down from the hayloft,
our fingers warm and sticky,
our tongues sweet like weeds.

When we slowly roll back into town
something of note will be expected of us,
an alibi, an act of defiance,
a draft of a mission statement,
some type of dance or puppetry,
but until we sort that out
let’s just split this joint and listen
to that meadowlark sing
into the red wine dusk.