A Room Through a Circle

A quiet field
is covered in a blanket of thick snow.

It is puffy like the sides of a white down comforter
hanging over the edge of the bed
on sunday morning

yet the surface is as crisp as ice
dusted with bits of sparkling snow-
they radiate 
like programmed lights on a synthesizer
in the moonlight.

It will crack like crème brûlée

with the slightest tap of a boot.





The field stretches out
a grand russian ballroom
with walls made of trees
and a ceiling of
swirling watercolor

aurora borealis 
  

I dance through it barefoot -

a body draped in yellow gauze and chiffon
scattering freshly torn leaves of eucalyptus

I polish the silvers spoons-
at the dining table
gather them up in my apron
the screen door creaks
I throw them into the night air-
they spin for a moment there suspended.

starlight traverses their shining surfaces
it stretches over the precious metal
like headlights
on a long road in the dark. 
 
In the fan aisle at the grocery store
I stand by myself in the wind.
the blue placards on the shelves wobble
the packages hanging from hooks sway
like saloon signs 
I close my eyes
let the hum drown out the rest.

I smell a bonfire
and the loose feeling of clothes
drenched in the smoke

running in the dark through the dunes
bits of sticks cracking
leaves shuffling like paper.



A flower grows through a hole
in the tarp
of an abandoned tent

green leaves fall in slow motion.