after heavy foot miles

To have come a thousand miles
a simple figure
here at the turning over
of the thousandth mile
on a road whose body’s
curves are nightly
known to me that
to dream is to drive
and how aster a purple
strong purple in
amongst the fine golden-
rod, so complementary
it’s no surprise what
I’ve created there.

To say each mile with
this exactitude. Tell
me exactly, not some
dream merely a dream
as you might want and
do, as was done
when you, a specific you
perhaps, painted a woman
so and near the ocean
so I’ve just been
to and ticked off
a mile at the foamy
edge a rocky edge
and am back.
Pierced truly the
place and lived
there awhile and
will return.
I let those natural
items be a telling—
avoid what your
calculated singing
does to horizon
and horizon line—

the mosquito dips its
long proboscis
into the dream forming.
A place covered

and uncovered by the swelling
water, cat tails probing
the air antennae misspelling
all which is far away
and I’ve distanced myself.
I dipped my body in
the cold cold salty and
now dip into

the cold and flooding
point that is all its
points. The touch-
me-not blooms that leap
from the climbing
and clever reach of
their body. So orange
the bloom so small
and mostly still.
The formality and construction
of love, I love
you anyway. All the cloud
covering that means
anything to me. Leaves
turned inside out
and two miles more.
Nearly driving into
gold feathers yet alive,
home as a sweet
coming. To have come.


Text: After Heavy Foot Miles by P. K. Harmon ©. Courtesy of Mr Harmon
Image: © Andrew Brodhead. Courtesy of the artist.


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