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 roots

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 felt your itch.

I know the scent as well as any,

clotting your garden

of paint or pollen,

brick in your mortar,

petals 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.

Its a finicky muse

with only potential

to choose.