Inventions, and: Necessities

127 RUSTY MORRISON INVENTIONS At sunset, clouds thick as poultices. My afternoon of foraging the phenomenal has rendered the hidden medicinals only more invisible. I taste the condensation of pine in night wind: a migration along bridge-less byways. How to travel like stars in their milk robes, like scent, clandestine, and everywhere apparent? Tomorrow, I will walk more gingerly among the all-sensing earthworms and all-seeing mud. Sun on my face, a climate to lift crocuses. 128 NECESSITIES RUSTY MORRISON Along my sightline, you’ve set up your carnival. Your offered smile. Or are you selling me back my own, as souvenir? Always a direction to the thrust of our cryptic silences. A moss, discernible by mental touch, predicts which way is true north. Words fill our lungs with the dust we eventually will become. Each exhale must choose anew to release its hostages. ...