Emotional Intelligence

My grammar, ‘tis of thee. Sweet simultaneity when water came down the hillside in a pipe and a local Cineplex of Oedipus armegeddoned us into a past no future could agree on. Nation was another thing to notice, how shirts and skins, ironies and their opposite eyed each other before the big game. Sneak up, affections. Be covert in the open. If I sing, I believe in wire taps bootless on be- citizened faces, that phat, that sick: help. We’ve given up the romance of weather, although I once felt so much for a man who wore oven mitts in the snow. Land where my fathers pilgrimmed all we can depend on, this freedom majestic in the jest that will what—blah, op-ed and blather us over, excelsis deo zapping rust from our names. The word “to” is understood. And it’s thy placey memories I love, darling tongue of my tongue, unique as any finger print in groove and grubbiness. Always someone becomes the subject re-collecting these minutes meandering like so many sheep that run before our steps, and the red or blue X’s on their hinds say who owns them as they go upslope, in rain, over the stubby grass.