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Chronicle

for eb
Camera slung at the shoulder and a ledger of bikes that lean, yours is a chronicle
of agave. Spines holding water.
I would recognize you in the dark. The white spines of diaries, evenly
matched on your shelves. Your whole 
heart beats her wings.
You are witness. You are prayer.
Your home is your ribcage. Is a garden of surprises where morning  glories mix with your black Spanish hair. 
Through the grass comes the sound  of your laughter. You spill before saints  and apostles. We stand ready to listen.
Recent posts

Made Visible

The yard is swathed in blossoms.

Arithmetic

1. Where does the boy end and man begin?
From hurdle runner and high dive lifeguard
to yoga, low to the beach.
50s flat top gives way to bellbottom 60s and
a 70s home overrun with blonde toddlers.
Boot straps to Birkenstocks, and still, that timeless
Methodist collection plate and Golden Rule remain
a wafer in your blood, father.
2. You tried to teach me arithmetic once and yet,
what we discovered together was a rock and roll song, a highway where everything got done.
3.  Think calculus, in thigh high waders against the cold. Casting out into the sun drench, deducing change