Paint or Pollen

Don't move an inch.
Listen for a singing
hitting in your bones like they were forks.
If you hear what I hear,
don't just sit there.
We are only strumming water
on this most unlikely chord.

You got blown shore to shore,
not quite sailing,
riding on the trade-winds of age.
Things blow in.
Don't just cast them.
You say it now, what you want to stay.

I was once on a long boat,
star-mapping the night routes,
lightening the load
just in case.
Things float in to be taken.
If you don't know by now, what will stay?

So don't move an inch.
Don't move a single second,
until the shade behind your thoughts is not confused.
'Cause I’ve felt your itch.
I know the scent as well as any,
clotting your garden
of paint or pollen,
brick in your mortar,
pedals to soak in,
on the cracks,
thicker or finer,
milk in your water,
black in your primer,
wood in your brush,
now I am your cloth,
whatever you want-
the best is upon us.
It’s a finicky muse
with only potential
to choose.

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