june's porch

with the golden heart strung across  
the tops of wheat colored tall grass  
and the slow breeze tickling remembrance  
spiders spin silver wire around faceted wi  
nds dancing the geometry that dissolves  
into excited fractions of itself.  
 
On the porch where the candlelight attracts  
moths, is where their wings run with bliss  
off their bodies, falling onto the backs of  
ants, who scurry them between the planks that  
hold our feet up above the curvature of the ea  
rth. They drag them like monolithic limestone  
across the flooded Nile, to down below where  
the rose and thorn discuss duality. The big floppy  
 
black dog expels a contented "haruumph" that confir  
ms that the Buddha too went to sleep. Syllables stack  
themselves about six inches high, and hum themselves  
into luminescence. There are words on the other side of  
this porch's threshold that love one another too highly  
to name themselves.