The Scent of Grass and Cigars

When I look at the space between the meadows

at the graphite road submerged under the

weight of its own shadows,

a graveyard for squirrels dead and alive

I realize that I am at the parameter of dawn and dusk

captured in the spectacle of a rare breed of time

that is both ephemeral and infinite 

 

I should not loose this moment

and this frequency of gold light

that fizzes like sound beneath my eyelids

 

It is alright

to be alone

to be caught in the catechism of my own skin

watching dragonflies

and the shadows of dragonflies

Because sometimes I am convinced

that my feet are not made for ground

and I am not an entity of the earth

but an ecstatic sensation

 

I am the scent of grass and cigars

I am the sound of a dead bird trying to fly

And I am the wrinkles in my hands

the veins beneath the bonfire

I hold down the drumbeat

I hold it to the heart of hollow stones