As Mourning Doves Persist

We travel in this history of  endless dinners          frugality suspended in air over water                                        inconsolable   We stand framed in the picture window                   in the light of the fridge                   with the door  patiently standing open                                           P assers-by will stare up   at us in this second story dark and wonder why the tiny Christmas lights all year long                                  witnessing orbs of smoke emanating from our stilled hands

Over the shop where silk is sold  Still the dragon kites are flying.  (Amy Lowell 1874-1925)  

You’re in a boat on the ocean in the arms of you lover. No wait. You’re in your car delivering company mail. The sun is coming up and there’s a deer strolling across the road with no where to go, but you’re eating oysters with spicy sauce on the city square. Reggae is spilling from the air. Oh dear, you are dreaming. The radio is playing and your mouth is moving as you awaken to the tune In the sky is a guitar. In your lover’s arms, an ocean of notes like Christmas. The sun comes up slowly. You are singing. Your drink tastes of hot sauce. You are brewing sweet tea. Music like sugar pours out of the salt ocean. There’s  a melodic clatter of shells on the floor of your car. The doe in the road knows you. Her eyes resemble you lover’s. You are strumming his arm. He sings along.