The sky just like all of us

There is magic, a current, a tree

I know it

Which people other than ourselves could feel

It pools here, gathers, fattened droplets

which they vainly tried to shape and steer.

But perhaps back then, the Sky allowed it

Took pity, or sensed kindred blood

Dripped moonlight on their dancing shoulders

wanted, simply, to be seen and loved.

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Stone circles

stone circles

silent standing

service, seance

spirits sailing

solemn silver

sisters sighing

steady, sturdy

sleeping sundown.

Callanish Three

At the top of this stone is the sun

, the moon

, the sun

are in each other at the top,

and the sky

is black lichen clouds or

is that the hills of the moor?

They trickle down a slope in the stone,

and fall

like a waterfall, a river

or a lightning strike

which forks,

like every future does.

And in the near-middle of the river

is a canyon’s cleft, which opens

A mouth

A vagina

and now that I study it

everything seems

to be flowing from there.

Now boarding

I felt like such an adult as I

carefully removed two slices of bread,

two slices of cheese, two slices of ham,

from their respective Ikea ziplock baggies.

The honey-mustard made it, in a little deli packet,

but it was sustenance,

and I had made it,

and I had planned ahead.

Perhaps this was adulthood, I reasoned,

although no one has come up with a definition yet:

getting on trains

watching the countryside

eating your own sandwich

purchasing ziplock bags.