8-26

I attended a session on poetry and bought a book by Mr. Applewhite–which inspired this one:

Sipping Applewhite Spirits

 

31°

 

In the pines this evening

breath hovers in misty apparition.

A lone stone chimney—a farmer’s obelisk—

stands where planks and beams

passed through termite guts centuries ago.

 

Stars pin-hole the dark attic;

their cold light chills my face

 

as Pisces drifts in its celestial sea,

its scales hundreds of light years old

fluttering to earth.

 

Am I gazing up? Or down

into the bottomless abyss,

where gravity glues my boots with pinesap

to this pine straw ceiling?

 

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