Sunday Remains
By Julie Flanders
Swollen infractions
The thick lip of the aftermath
Incredulous glances
As the orange mountain rises up
Out of itself
Into the blue occasion
There are no maps in the drawer
There is no drawer
Only the gold button
Where a handle is
Not the only way
In is out
The chunks of what appears to be solid
Is actually light
Collected in shadow
There is a bruise in the sky
Where the shadows pretend to be dense
And elemental
The elements take shapes
The porcupines crave
Pineapple stew
The worst of this
Is the best of that
An arrow in the apple
Old shoes on the patio
Or is the porch coming apart
Who left the sand in the rectory
A swimsuit on the altar
The strange olde man
Disrobes
The tube full of mysteries
And parchment
Who is reading these
Ancient languages
Do they read aloud
Is there a reference we can read
Around
What you know
From the story you told
The tiger
Ate flowers
While the hummingbird pretended
It was all easy
Humming bird of the past
Dipping its sharp beak into the nectar
Of hope
The perfume of flowers
Grown in shite
I see
The tree reaching its arms out
Like a ballerina
And the dog lying like a ladybug
Round as a button
Photo by John Cobb
October Process 