The fury of my love
tears the shroud
and spills the ashes from the urn.
Though my blue-eyed sun god is dead,
the sun radiates and holds us in it's orbit.
The green and the white take me home
to a place that isn't there anymore.
Dead though they may be,
I see them under my eyelids.
I see them leaning over the green felt.
Polished granite cannot stop his bank shot,
calling the six ball in the corner pocket,
carom kissing the seven into the side.
Laughter and ice in glasses
punctuate the requiem.
His dimpled grin
is as spry as a spring goat.
His face is all freckles and burning summer.
The spun hub in the sky
lifts our toes and fingertips.
It softens the air behind our ears.
The tips of blue spruces
brush the arches of our barefoot hearts.
The blood pitch drips and fattens the soil.
The spruce roots pulling heaven down into the real
change macaroni into manna and quails.