crepuscule with nellie (take six)

by Ken Taylor

we make choices. sometimes it’s watching phoebes erase moths
from clover months after the family jaunt across texas: weather

parroting miles & miles of trouble. dirt roads going nowhere or
to a lozenge pattern: evidence of local color hiding something all

over the place in the same kind of building. other times, we find
ourselves on a plane over a large body of water & the headphone

jack defective. yet, if we complain, compensated only with a wink
& reminder our seat cushions float. was it late afternoon saturday?

you were wearing the t-shirt we both like: i can’t, i’m waiting for
godot & the kid on the bus asked, what’s go dot? we can choose

to loiter in the past: munich, on some straße, trying to decode
menus to avoid eating der blaue reiter for the 4th time this week.

breathing a shade of cinnamon we weren’t sure existed. & birds
again, only this time crows, rowing in an iron· sky & mispronouncing

klee! klee! klee! ten-thousand foot view is the distance we want
to be seen by: not a river wandering to find more river. scar tissue

passes for meaning. gristle: gist. police talk to their shoulders instead
of using them to brachiate. we all chose to throw rocks over arboreal

locomotion. a trifle that springs to mind is catching fish with balls
of white bread. we wonder if there’s pond life with this shape

that hasn’t been discovered & can be named for a relative who
botched their days. eventually we succumb to tabula rasa & sell

the suburban. love is noticing the eyes of another being picked
up in a tie. everyone improves in the proximity of our affection