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