Light Spinning

I go to Marvin Bell and the Italian tarot reader and all, always, for all of these years have been as inquiry of this map of you and me, the one that leads always back into circle, the same path, the whirly helicopter seeds of hands-clasped tight and we go somewhere, under,
spring or fall, spinning, spring, or sprung, like two happy children until we lose our balance, cry our, why’s?

Dizzy, our noses pressed into drying grasses, swear off our God’s last, to never, ever do this again! The crazy shared paintings that mean nothing to the world outside our own tightly, hot imaginings.

11:11

Why am I choosing to fast from the pink and wet tunnels to light, the way you got down on sore knees to kiss my maroon-painted toes? If this is the color bridge of dark and light that works us children into the humps of water saving camels—who are the mirage of men in woven, cloven aprons, who bid me to take the purer route through the scorching and oft times, bitterly cold sands of a never-ending Mohave, always that paradise just out of reach, the swaying palms, the silk tents, the Turkish rugs and peanut-butter-filled dates that we’ve shared plenty of Sunday’s when you merely inserted a key, opened the celestial gate for a flood of ocean to fill the Great Salt Lake, the Dead Sea and all of the angels that went fishing on these, casting their blue/gold nets into the rising bubbles of light.

Photo: A close-up I saw at the Portland Rose Garden