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Tony Gentry

Intimation – a poem

Updated: May 17

It was that spring when my heart slowed I was dizzy.

It rained a lot. I would be up alone with coffee on the porch and the sun lifting at a slant would streak the lawn like Van Gogh with new tubes of oils slapping on lurid impasto, I’d say greens but the miscellany could be maddening.

We were dropping like flies my ears rang as if boxed and the darkness reeled when I’d get up to pee.

On the porch scalloped color dappled shadow a lavish radiance that strafed my eyes. It struck me all at once how it may be to go that I may even sign off without regret because none of this was for me all just an inkling of how profligate beyond appreciation a suburban morning can be and will be long after my slurpy heart slows to a stop.

Some did not go gentle some lost their heads or fretted impossible cures and I imagine I may cry over leaving this complicated heaven amidst the sure disintegration of whatever faculties had been mustered to navigate, propagate, dawdle, play.

But here with this oddly slowing heart another option dawns, that a gift can be discovering that you are done have outstayed your welcome now & your blue mama calls you back to nourish whatever comes next in the dapple of the stars.

Joey lay down on his bed. He’d showered, his clothes laid out for work and I guessed his wow as it all went down because I would hope the same in my time but I think now there may be this interim theater of dazzling color and explosive flavor of getting walloped on the head with momentary gaps in the things we ignore like balance & rhythm & flow.

Ears ringing as I stagger to a chair take a seat and finger the pulse sumping at my wrist an indication of when whatever belonging I’d imagined fails, when all I really was tumbles into the warmth of a backyard compost piled with egg shells, coffee grinds, and friends I will go, cracked and ground like them, and by then one can hope that will be okay as if it mattered when of course whether there is anyone awake to see it sunlight goes splash like milk on the porch floor and chimes tinkle tinkle in the breeze and seeds across the lawn upsprout their dream of Van Gogh green.

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