In a car’s wake
leaves skip like jumping jacks.
A gold road,
where tree’s bones lurch
out of blinding sun.
Oils of rich lichen blues,
soft moss patches
on walls that line a route
between here and somewhere.
I was there once, I think,
with you.
 
In a fire’s shadow
dark corners wither an evening.
Stuttering wood,
red as a gothic novel,
heats us a little.
A carriage clock chimes unseen.
We are talking,
voices soft stringed, lute-like,
not about love, but loving.
A sun sets in your eyes.
 
A bend in a river.
It is morning,
mist loiters over the water
and a first frost
turns threadbare.
Sudden wind on my cheek
and leaves fall, yellowing.
One lands on your shoulder.
“That’s lucky” you say.
The rest are taken by the water,
round the bend to…..

somewhere else.
 
These images seem clear,
yet sharp corners are rounded off,
if they were ever sharp at all.
I hear myself breathing,
smell your perfume,
sense a sequence reducing
to meet my mind’s resonant frequency.
When I do, will I bottom out
on some unknown mud flat?