cider farms and cranberry bogs

cider farms and cranberry bogs

stress, not intent, decides to publish, jettison, destroy,
or hide away forever, in cave settings, where dripping materials
turn solid, substantive, historical; roped off for field trips.

my dreams are chaotic, like cells rent with juice, crushed by time,
leaking, merging content with source in a tumbled brown ooze
that smells like vinegar, and smuggles generations in its carcass.

I have found stasis in that constant fracture, an effervescent unity,
like those two words whose names are what they mean; the cycle itself - 
no walls, no ceiling, no floor - just wishes becoming different in a void.

dreams like wanderlust, the possibility of seeing endless
lines on the bucket list, more crumbs from cider doughnuts,
leaving the smoke of desire in muscle, a slow craving,

circling silent over tree lines, like tradition, like feasts after football,
long drives through cold swamps, a deathly sleep from a full belly,
the smell of red berries boiled down, with perfect care, into memory.

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