09/05: neon mack

Our shoulders hunch, our chopsticks stab and slip,
a pressed pink shirt, a neon mack, a drab
transcontinental print, thread-worn, we drip
through decades, jump each storied lily-pad
and soak into the present pool of ease
and weensy wrinkles, hand-forged bands and vows
and research bouquets, nascent from the east.
Remember (if you go the long way round)?
Each preface stitches quicksteps into sand,
each “and” a stand you take to weave the path
toward meaning, toward the arching land.
Meanwhile in the forest, calls of wrath
chase and tangle into the dog-worn grooves:
an archer, striding toward the moon he moves.