I
“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence.
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.”
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens,
and my succulent ideas are shriveling.
These are dangerous times.
II
The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history.
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.”
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.
III
Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me.
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.
The aroma of bacon.
The sizzle of eggs.
The sorrowful slaughter.
The entitled theft.
These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.
IV
“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper.
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”
V
We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away.
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me.
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.
VI
The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart.
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.”
We locate the ladder and drag it in.
VII
A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady.
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint.
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections,
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.
*****
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Short visits with an honest God 