by Andrew Broadous
It’s a risk, but I’ll choose banality.
I’ll lie on a hill and watch the creamy
clouds stream along through filtered
periwinkle. Of the free shapes will be
these – armadillos, soft horses, potato
chips, and snapdragons. Misshapen
phalluses and Fu Manchu. I have little
to do with these, but I’ll let them pass.
And I’ll wonder how you managed
to slip through, too, for one cumulus
will have your eyes, your chin and hair,
your unfettered desire to float and keep
floating still, till what remains of me is
the mist of memory in your sight. So I’ll
grab two fistfuls of earth, stir my limbs
to a handstand, and rattle this world a little.
I’ll bring down the sky and everything
with it like loose pocket change. You’ll fall
to my orbit, and I’ll press you to my lips –
my lost dime, shiny and found.