spell a-m-b-u-l-a-n-c-e with me,
e-c-n-a-l-u-b-m-a if you see it straight on,
if you see through the dusty tower-piles of national geographics
stacked into a blue house at the end of the wood-lane:
where all the cars turn around –
or, in winter, get stuck trying –
where the circle part turned soul-studio
plays out its beautiful record.
(did i pay the bill?)
in subtle starts we become afraid of the very
things that make us happy, the too-cheery things
that make us smile — giddy, open-mouthed –
that make us forget mirrors, deadlines, grids, mortality.
(may you always free-smile holding pointed-paper-cone-cups.)
spell a-m-b-u-l-a-n-c-e with me;
do not think of the blood, the yellow-painted glass-paned door,
the chase at the top of the stairs, the forty-eight stitches –
the hundreds more to come that you know not yet.
like a jolt — the rooster lamp crows alive
with white-gold glow; in the hum — connection
chum – the books close; the radiant piano
reverts back to silent furniture.