Author: Reagan Wilson

we recall the distances by their smells.
too late for magnolia, we’re on time
for rosemary, fir. eons of pollen.
we tolerate the ambiguity ‘tween
us: a heart orbit, those dudes who pine
their hour of use. ferment. first we cleanse.

in the halflight we hush up, hurry back.
our weigh double. our fuzz dandered gold.
I got old. here. I changed my address again
again. if manufactured, why not then
out-wittable, rewrit. wiped clean. willow
or toad. my nerves a road rut with lilac.

heck, you can have yourself a bad feeling
about/with/through. into. call a drat door
what it is: a clue to the truth. this place
won’t do. these coins can’t family, a fix, fake
can customize the panes; can pay right for
the embryo – the bond costs its keeping.

swarm season finds me weary and urgent.
we split, nostalgic. scout bail in the eaves
or a busted brake light. less a danger
lest we lose even more. a container
not an address. not just time, my cloy thief
time crossed ought crossed gone. for want of merging.

my mind is all of us. here in my lux
jelly bath. here, tended, while I we us
more of us. even my doom, I birth her.
once, I soared a sort of chase. a blur
of need. once more, I’ll leave. we dance
discuss the neighborhood, hot bloom gossip.

hope, or its lack. not a location but
a collective and devastating change
of imagination. money, color,
us. forced honey down the throat, another
sacred crocodile. another place
of no return, or return warped. sweet glut.

here, then: the place where I happen to live
now or once did – or both. then fled on sense
then was again, located. phermonic
compassed, thunderbolt lineage. honest
lunaria annua lit request –
protect, protect. here at the sill, rerived.

comforting, to mistake a set of mind
strings named feelings rigged up
from the jump. rather a glamour informed
by the hum between. let a map perform
a find: lime flower, thyme. departure cusps
return. flush falsifies lust, a few times.

a fav bloom; oh yeah, proximity.
varies the flavor of the stuff. what wafts
in a summer window, but nostalgia.
those roses are gone – no one can salvage
time. five thousand years old ceramic pots
hold linden honey for her death journey.

we weren’t then we were. a teem. a feeling
turned go on no such luminiferous
ether. between us an us we’re inside.
call it forge, call it tend. winged and five eyed
we’re an I of ten thousand. and one. but
home’s not the ground; can’t be split certainly.