alive in the second world

by Lindsay Sears

the blackest of wool
weaves velvety smooth
in the darkness before twilight
that rounds the four corners
absolute as nothing

this many long walks from home
I am reminded word for word
how a crowd can garble closeness
and of a need to recompose the pines
step for step like a misty form
following the bounces of my turquoise torch

the fabric of the day whorls embryonic
still nursing jet black clouds
so the constancy of my little dome
proved in an astronomical glow
by shards of shell like streaks of milk spilt 

this butte having weathered
storm cloud suffusion of ominous mood
or the blurring of edges by a winter’s gloom
stands as I in the skirt of its scree
losing its breath in the fall

the crystal of a civil dawn sparks
a clarifying wildfire across the sky
that the yip-howls of coyotes explain
pulls taut the warp of background
for those who muddle through frayed

and seeing me formed in that first world
and lost in the planning of passings
the red-shirted ants swirl in succession
searching for the secrets of strife

I pinch a sliver of coconut
into singular jaws

I follow behind 
in a march toward my hill
with the waving of little white flags
and climb up from the darkness
and into a world of blue

I walk toward the squawking of jays

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