Cover Story

To study the multifarious strokes
of southerly wind on bronzed, oily skin,
to spend our time better, abiding
in the in-between, noting the finite
of infinite - the things right in front of our face,
we fail to notice everyday,
sitting in graying hues of black porous dirt,
bathing in the shallow orange of ageing September rays; it's
being spun like a cobwebbed earth, indiscriminately
catching all the comes its way: Today, like all the rest,
there's a mysterious twitch in the accelerating strings of time,
river smells of midafternoon spewing off
from the sputtering clouds; and a silence
in its whitish stroke, finally slowing the hasty universe down;
it's soothing, like wooden flute notes in our ears,
a calming ripple through the gravity that holds us all in place.
Get closer, and you'll see all amazing intricacies,
the earth, just shifting over slightly,
not even close to several degrees.