This could be 
my secret hour
when the loose 
ends get gathered
up and arranged 
in heirloom rows
with all the perfume 
promise of ripe 
summer plums. 

When the fat lady 
steps forward to sing, 
the brilliance of her 
aerial voice rising 
in a luminous loop 
beyond the spotlight;
beyond the canopies; 
above the four corners.

When the surplus 
and the shambles, 
the rough residue 
of regret, the trail 
of gloom and tragedy, 
the lament of unrelished 
days, evaporate in a cogent 
crisp of cloudless blue. 

And all the things that
matter most, like mouth
to mouth inscriptions, 
skin to skin sequels, the 
feel of green and music, 
the blush and whisper 
of grandiose ideas, return 
in a supreme sweep that 
rises to the surface like yeast 
and honey: a sweet surplus 
of plenty to pocket for the road.