written to me on my birthday.

the plastic yielding lawn chair in
a lurching pool
of sweet green, hazed heat,
i consider when my dreams
began speaking in their own slang, argot
when thinness of air and excess
of blue burned them out
sent them away, then
found me here.
this gritty, mordant,
spectrally vibrant, stoked
like the last dying embers,
an epliogue, an
appendix, an addeundum spewing
frenzied glossolalia.

and thinking about that
other, unexpected green,
a sidewalk in summer, an apparition
superimposed, embossed,
arguing with simple existence against
all thought of the mundane,
walking light,
beckoning and unapproachable, tense,
terrifying faberge power
broadcasting promises only of
of ambiguity, uncertainty, short hand,
sea legs, stenographic and painstaking
unspokenness.
that tremor on first glance
resonating still
a string plucked to go twang in
a vacuum,
the same sweet note, never
repeated, moving like
a hummingbirds wing moving still
something like you won't
come again.