Close To Summer.

The sky fills me with tired grace.
I am driving in the sunshine towards work,
And the sky is on my mind.
I can’t gain anything from the sky.
The putrid flesh; the rotting bones;
The honey of dew.
A hurricane is off the shores of South Carolina.
The winds rip and roar and graze through
The clouds,
And everything is putrid,
Smells of rotted meat.
The rainbow mars my perfect view of the sky.
Everything is full of grace, everything
Is translucent.
Everything is everything,
And nothing is whole and sacred.
Words are to the wise.
The words are templar.
Things transcend up a marble staircase,
And I walk, my nose sniffing the daisies.
The daisies wake in summer.
It’s not summer yet.