Mark Parsons
I Believe You
said what you said. And beyond that,
not much.
The resulting sadness
concentrates my self-awareness,
at the same time
smashing it into abundant refractions
that dazzle like the afternoon sun
I enter squinty-eyed
after drinking in a darkened corner of the bar all morning,
the sequined bodice of a day
gaudy and overexposed through a tangle of eyelashes.
What eating frosted cake
waxy tasting with too much paraffin
however shiny it may be
does to every thought you have about cake.
Often I’m able to
reason backwards from a proposition, or at least discover
the murky origin
in a far recess of a stranger’s unconscious,
but with all this talk,
what was it?
Something about bears,
hypothetically tracking them…not.
I’ve got to stop. I mean,
it’s a clear day.
Prowling the lowlands while dressed in this highlander camouflage,
when I look up and see not a cloud in a sky
torn to scraps and swatches beyond the leafy canopy,
it means there's little to no chance of torrential rain and all it drenches
helping a profile that’s optically fractured and broken
but only in ways wholly conspicuous
blend in. Every tree and bush and rock formation
will continue to look
real, thus
keeping me and the ones who are watching oriented
until I ease in place, slide and
come to rest
in the vertex where myriad crosshairs converge.