Another love poem.
"Springtime in Rutledge".
I don't know from pinwheels.
I am far from boots and their fabulous parade, from tubas.
What happened to me was god in small things,
and flying on the ground it's funny to be here,
next to the shadow you left behind.
The river keeps time with nothing nowadays, just
little blasts of air.
And when I say river, I don't mean river.
Do you see the ribbon inside space and time.
It's a kind of river, a kind of nothing
cascading above our hearts.
And that's how it is, tiny lights at a county fair
sending you a telegram.