There is in my life and not mine
alone I am sure of it a color
and along with it an emotion
unspeakable but discoverable.
It enters into the largest first
and then smaller bones with stealth
creeping like molecules or atoms
tightening every part of me like a belt.
As fortuitous and as veined as
the frequency of a mountain’s mistake
the heel or toe after an ill-fit hike
the hint of thunder the shadow of ache.
Comes between envy and having
when the dragonfly is becoming hungry
whenever the lifeguard’s eyes are angry
when a stone is praying to evening.
The bay and the lake are jealous of it
in the open ocean at its least stingy
rare in rivers who are impatient
it requires room but needs no entry.
There is a succulent called blackrose
it is the peackock the turkey of the garden
the walk of flout the fruit of crush
back and forth of neglectful hackles.
The gravity of the brother of bruise
the mood of an older sister’s brooch
some jams on spoon but not on bread
the muddle on a well-worn head.
In leg of spider with beetle sheen
carried in befuddlement on a breeze
to where air thins to unbreathable
then gazing out at bent obliqueness.
In the mosaic at the oldest well
in the cool act of translating
stuck smack dab between the waiting
and the mixed emotions swelling.
It feels like the perkiness of
a gonzo warbler in a frozen
swamp where opposites flirt
like penumbral kissing cousins.