wıtness

those little breaks
in the day read like through
a woven plant basket
unwatered and dusty with age

walking sometimes to find water
sometimes to remember
the kitchen sink everyplace we go
is empty and waiting for dishes

sending postcards to distant friends
the air is dry
i pick fresh figs from the trees
the pommegrants are still not ready

lost in a bluish mad circle of sky
lying on my back, water trickles all over
the view a hundred miles atleast
its easy to pretend