He o From theThird Stair

Hello from the third stair. I am older. I can no longer remember cool nights, Maria Van Zandt in her yellow dress. I’ve been thinking about the other side of the lake. I’ve been thinking I lost Maria down one of these county lanes. Flamenco is the name of a flower and a street and a sort of missile discovered beneath the ironworks of a European city. I have never been, but I plan to visit if I ever find the shadow of a cockatoo’s forelock. I had an apple today. I suppose that isn’t true, but the thought feels green. Down by the pier the planting of rocks has stalled and no one’s ecosystem works quite like it should. Do you understand what I mean when I tell you I have dug a well? I cannot see the bottom. I cannot sail into the sea. I cannot own a single blade of Augustine grass without a permit from who knows who anymore! You and I are rooks and everyone else is a queen and there are no more horsemen. Why do you cry for the beast where he cowers beneath the feathers by the door? There are no more eagles, no more cups, just the same birds we’ve seen circling all our lives. This is all I know about weather patterns, young fox. This is all just a thirst dream, you know. Poetry 73