are we vain to believe in movement?

naïve, to be confident in the passing of things and ways to another?

eyes veiled in light-bulb night of daytime

when i snap pictures: a traveling six

horse band of outsiders and rough rider

gutter punk gypsy skunk, scragglier

than the last time we all converged

upon some sleeping stowaway

on a fool's errand, thru gold mines and Mordor:

the hurried wars

and old castle rocks

stacked like wood letter blocks,

tossed out "now-and-zen" clocks

it's time we had a time,

laughed through a rhyme

of sage wrapped entwined

in our souls all slying the Great Divide

from one side to another

in a dark Boulder basement

of slo-flowing life matter

all prickly hairs up on the ends of our skin,

pulling it up into thousands

of tiny mountains,

smoking at their peaks,

exhaling silver leaf

reflections on the nature of intimation

on the passage of time from the time we had

a time to the time we stopped

believing in mountains

because some shirt tenure said, "enough with it,"

in a checkered picnic basket,

the fact is, I've sat there til I was uncomfortable

until I was comfortable again,

I find myself trying again

to say something true to you

when all of it is blue

and jeans faded, and holes in your flannel

remind me of the wood panels in our basement

back in Maryland—we left our lunch boxes there

burned to the bottom of the stairs

that we bounded down without underwear

or caring whether outsiders were there

to be surprised: Four Loko in hand

and rubbing your bare belly, a man

a man a man is a boy is a girl

and a woman is love in our hearts

and out from our hearts to the world