There are no cloudy 
Saturdays—
polish the planets love, spirals
out of the ground…I walk with grace.
 
Singing life is stirring in the ether,
I recall how the heartthrob of spring
a string, (between my forehead)
reclined in beach chairs
eating ice cream, pen in hand.
Divine intervention: this lithe body.
 
   Reach for me in the present tense,
 
putting my dreams to bed.
These tired, (think hologram)
passports from other worlds
gentle, rain-made, Sunday
morning still.
     You’re different
 when—the funneling tail finally touches ground.
 
  
  
 
* A Cento,
consisting of the first full lines from the initial eighteen
 poems in Mike Wilson’s newly released book, Before the Fall.