photo_camera by I have never been where the road is a straightaway, not for years— had no intentions to ever go back to where the daffodil-dashed lines end on fatigue, where I left Whitney. Where I left Whitney, her campground of velvet leaves became a cover of frost and faux-snow. Her field of sage poppies' paved sleep and overgrew the antidotes in the imagined prism flowers; the hypnotic rows of mint-white mirages preceded purple and what must have been her heather remains. When I entered back into the city—Whitney, her autumn air was hibernating, everything was lush, even my glasses reflected the moss on the rocks and couldn’t transition, couldn’t let go of the green. Her silk hairs overtook the lake’s crocodile skin and its fishbones— they became fur coats on August beaches. It seems everything there was becoming white chalk outlay, grey chert discarded, dusty jade endings and green slipping into ivory stockings. She was trying to shy away from browning, wanted only chartreuse to turn white. The rangers closed off the park's right arm in the spring; the summer floods took everything except the jigsaw shores, my memory of her— Whitney, she might drift right into winter.
I have never been where the road is
a straightaway, not for years—
had no intentions to ever go back to where
the daffodil-dashed lines end on fatigue,
where I left Whitney.
Where I left Whitney, her campground
of velvet leaves became a cover of frost and faux-snow.
Her field of sage poppies’ paved sleep and overgrew
the antidotes in the imagined prism flowers;
the hypnotic rows of mint-white mirages
preceded purple and what must have been
her heather remains.
When I entered back into the city—Whitney,
her autumn air was hibernating,
everything was lush,
even my glasses reflected the moss on the rocks
and couldn’t transition, couldn’t let go of the green.
Her silk hairs overtook the lake’s crocodile skin
and its fishbones—
they became fur coats on August beaches.
It seems everything there was becoming
white chalk outlay,
grey chert discarded, dusty jade
endings and green slipping into ivory stockings.
She was trying to shy away from browning,
wanted only chartreuse to turn white.
The rangers closed off the park’s right arm in the spring;
the summer floods took everything except the jigsaw shores,
my memory of her—
Whitney, she might drift right into winter.
