Downhill Tide

the wind was in the stirrups of the long wheat;
golden silly with sunbeams -
bent in the barrel of a whorling breeze, tumbling over Summer’s feet.
the horizon had begun to surge with morning and chimney stacks. a blood-yellow rose -
against a velveteen blue as solemn as a mute choir with a megaphone.
the hills had begun to unearth and take on the semblance of invisible glory
arranged by divine erosion seeking the solace of an ocean.
downhill of a tide.
the very air was in the aire of a long retreat from the motley villainy of ruined things.
just a hint of sparrow in the whirling plea of all Summer’s dream.
the Leviathan of dawn had purged both Ink and Star from the evening score. blunt as a nose -
on the voluminous face of a petite prayer, petitioned to a dial tone -
in the key of your surrender. as a faith from some remembrance of a risible Story.
as told by a blind devotion seeking the one place that a notion
doesn’t lie.
as a kissing farce.
and pilot
light.