A Green Place

A Green Place

We must wonder if the place is real, what color it is. We must be on hands and knees or on our backs. If the guitar-song we hear is truly sounding the Spanish language, then I wonder if your skin is so full of pores. These could be instructions on how to hear symphony without pixilated suspicion. Is this an exercise in your study?

Can I hold the metal letters of your mouth without shaking, place them neat and tight? Press them into a quarto. You would think your first assignment would be playing the Italian fisherman’s houseboat. It’s green.

I feel the little heads of pintails and jays in the crests of your iris, bobbing—sometimes reflected in a horse-eye, in hazel. I’d put your name in it, spin the sound /k/ into a very large leaf—the kind tourists pluck and hold up to their faces. They photograph your greens.

Curving, as a quail’s plume into the guard, a fascinating madness of this single color: green. So existence of place is no longer the question. How do I make a cloak? It is the possibility of fashioning, deep in its fibrous grottos, new colors. Most men become lost. It’s funny to say I like pink.

Just so you know, I never needed this small city. I needed to weave a sound of the moment before aching. The way kiwi fruit will drip so slowly. You never need to pick out the seeds, but you can hold them in between your teeth, smile and it’s like a small part of life—or at least the small part of a pasture.

We’ve the handwriting of a sea’s slightest vessels, folded paper boats—their sails a sentence zipping up your spine and lengthening my neck.

I want to be the north moss. That green. A firmament of genius captured in the whinny of a horse. Stumble in the movements from this to that, we catch up to the instinct of right and wrong. You are the brightness of green sugars, the way my eyes turn up when they close.

originally published in Phoebe

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