Places Are Spoken Of

by Darryl Price

In leaves this time of year. Another
Language that like every other tongue argues
More existence please with lots of everything
In regular doses--sun and wind and
Rain and room to throw one’s arms
Around each new day, but a deliberate

Emerald will green from within. Greed gets
You acquisitioned next to the wall. Someone
Is bound to have a pair of
Scissors sooner or later with your name
On it. Is this what’s happened to
Me? I exploded over the time with

A beard twined of wild flowers and
Swept the local moths into a volcanic
Disappearance of dust-Like proportions which choked apart
Any chance of making new friends with
The surrounding scenery? Too bad. I couldn’t
Help filling my legs up with all

That fresh pleasure and carrying it back
To the hive of my purest dreams
For later offering to the Muse herself,
An organic moisturizer she might easily dab
On between gigs as a silvery pulsating
Star or the mature breasts of the

Moon goddess. Let us celebrate moments like
These that conquer us so elegantly. Why
Let the circles close in all around 
Us when we are made of the 
Stuff that keeps strumming into the
Eternal one’s palmed ear canals?