The Trucks of Concsious Harmony

The how is
everywhere invisible-
the stillness-
I re-enter the
surf.

Utter incompetence
crowded my eyes-
I knew it-
secret bugle calls!
Oh the beat?

A couple walking
over the pages
near that
same light and a
preacher’s hair
combed over his eyes.

I hear your baby talk
swinging in the air
fireworks in
the spring sky-
a momentary tenderness-
candid shots reveal
digging in the dirt
with my nephew for
these verses and
pennies.

“A gold penny,” he says
then throws it down
burying it quickly in the dirt.

“What will the penny grow?”
I ask.

“I’ll figure it out.”
He replies.