Irregular Bird Patterns

Pots and bowls are really one bowl boiling in a pot on the stove in the pink kitchen, the ladies luncheon hosted her sprawling flat-water estate, a flock of swans drifting gracefully about the lake, taking an afternoon dip to fight the vapors of humid come soon mid-May the Earth sheds her waking bones and dances like a river, fence the shiver never forget the sod that meeps under the rocks, her favorite thing about nature walks is the moss, cigarettes and cell phones until we decide to get further lost on the dirt path what’s up with this gravel future? I can feel it melting on my eyes like mint julep coats our throats in the summertime, Mayberry porch rhyme about nostalgia and black and white, grainy photographs of holy sheiks at their water pipes, and the rare lonely gas station between Hyattsville and Park Heights, the cherry tree flights into the city and the sky was grey, the Potomac River slated passing under the highway, the gilded bridge into Georgetown where there is no metro stop, we drop into Mie n Yu for their crab rangoon and blueberry lamb steaks, we learn dancing at Maru Montero and slip through the FDR memorial after sunset, the slow wending procession of oxidized statues and granite proclamations, watching the city fall asleep from the roof of his building in the hub of Adam’s Morgan, Madam’s Organ still cranking wildly a weathered blues rock jam from her greasy pipes, the caballed fight of motorcycle flocks sawing the night in two we are dancing on the roof in my ear, as he walked through the door where I was pouring more wine in the red sauce on the stove—