Elm Farm

The mercury edged past zero for the first time in months. You can make out sunrise, just.

Revealing a heady, heightened, drunken lightness through the thick and frozen stack out back.

Sunbathers stood on the banks of the Moskva; Sondico swimmers and Armani sliders.

You ever see a 100x bail haystack burn? I’ve seen those things, all those things.

Amber sap oozing, the sweet sweet scent of honeycomb rind.

Now the trees barely hang on. Almost dead, not barely born, not one anew. 

Still the clouds are alive with spirits. Ghosts in a telescope viewfinder lit by the moon.

Electrified currents lash left and right, heart monitoring arrhythmias with the sound on mute; 

Hand Drawn Pikachus.

I WANT TO BE OUT IN THE NIGHT 

IN THE HOLY SMOKE RISING

THROUGH TO THE WET AND WILD SUNRISE

Remember them?

Nothing stirs in the local lake.

The pond life is frozen, the scales are perfect, new waveforms emerge.

(side van door slides open)

Three hours out from our high school reunion. Mankind before Hell In A Cell.

I recall her phone number written on my palm, nice handwriting. 

I retrace the digits with my finger and think, to sink and rescind, 

The scribbled digits turn to dust and dance away lightly, like crushed leaves on the wind.