Scott Dexter CC
The owner of the vines is all about waiting
for energies to grape to dry wine back to mood
again, notes again as he muses there comes a time
one has to live on mostly dirt
and a percent of water. For hours
I don button-down checks as if mine.
Repeat him in English, even the land was my first love.
My back to a friend in the role of the unfairly
little-sistered by this beadle posture, as she still
dissects leaves of mine she’ll later lift, not seeing
for a while now our scarves where I held my pen, as she
flips how turned up, all love songs are drink songs in July,
the flow cooler than whimpers. Come dark.
Mid-pour her glass I freeze. Cold-turkey quit fronting.
Not everyone a son when sheltered like a toddler.
My latest prayer on such sunseted,
may your day not end in carelessness.
More from the presenter as he rinses
his hands from a pump: for luck is
some weeks, the street in a white mantle
over to the next quarter. Followed by other months,
some rows fracturing wide as a road can, not caring
the world glimpses how much its center
barely spins from thirst. Sounds mid-parable.
My friend deep in a swirl I revise into a year of
a rolling stone who has just learned how to whistle.
After whispers half her life, trying for a whole note out of
smoke rings, now on her way to carve out a sec to sigh
as if in her first ocean. Like a tune she likes
to karaoke I wish her love. The heart to grow up
our host and his tastings finer
across plains, less words recurring, but in my bright blouse.
But who paddles home to a stocked kitchen.
We should be able to compose a hope bubble
good to be heard in a valley. To funnel the panorama.
Once we have a lot of a bit of everything. Our saucers
fill with milk then coffee.
Onion-garlic broth, could cool to tea.
The air avuncular-mellow. If there is
a need, it isn’t for any one pierce.
If asked, with next to no warning my hopes
began to reach, as if wherever glade I landed
a weather from a nimble
mother made sure I was on trine.
Maybe it takes no humbler than this, unknown
wind for climbing. Chimes. A carafe,
bread basket—plenty handed
free with roots stock, a lit nook.
The lone art a snapshot of a barefoot
love against a wall of small white blooms
it would be a constellation.
I can’t complain in my tent. Whatever
waning has blended. Even simpler a song
is when everyone is inside a circle
it’s more than enough to be in high
spirits, slowed tide. Arcana: Temperance
if dealt a hand.
No why so quiet?
Why aren’t you looking harder
in the shadows? On a few tack-gray
days, I did the interviewing. A lifeguard
who used to put out fires at sea
said he began to sleep soundly, in a good
loop too, when his calling found him.
He had given up the sigh
of someday out-rocking. How many times
in a life span does one hear, let me tell
you my story. Story—have you seen a body?
Begins in the blades.
People and their eclipses.
Their vows of exodus by dawn
falling on a long sleeper. All their spinning
and and and and end
as they believe they lead away, letting me
miss my feathers.
Kris Falcon’s second poetry collection Some Blue, A Little Spur has recently been released. Her poems may be found or will appear in The Hong Kong Review, Red Ogre Review, Havik, Atlanta Review, SMEOP, and elsewhere. She received her MFA at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.