Heart Attack Country
Softly
you enter the red tide, that sateen
landscape lithographed on the back
of eyelids.
Aging
means not caring anymore.
A sea of sidewalks await--
celestial and gray in the evening
tonality.
It always ends that way.
A magenta moon embosses
a chiaroscuro sky. A cicada
churns ancient stories
in the netting of apple trees.
Motionless, you blend with earth,
one ear sojourned
with new-mown grass.
We enter and re-enter
that awful under land, that soft
sluicing of a thousand salmon
in the distance.
It always ends that way
vining upon the portico
of moon
as gray-edged thrushes
ferret the sky.
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