The untidy memory clings
to my eyelashes—
a smoke that never
brings me to tears
but always keeps them on edge.
I straddled a canyon once
thinking that the best way
to scrape the arid sky
to add to my color palette
with a little linseed oil.
Never more than a flash
that memory
is something I feel
like my blistered hand
soaking in pickle brine.
All of it dances beautifully
around the question
Do you love me?
and the answer piñata high
hit with an ash bat.
Some days I choose to get lost
in a deep bottle of Claret.
While other days I take the option
of cleaning the horse barn—
mice escaping the shifting debris.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 