It's Delicate Business

It’s a damned near full moon
It’s clear, a bracing
evening. I’ll exhale out
to trace the treeline off
to a nothing northern florida town.
She sat at a flea market
where tons of townies in camouflage jackets
pressed past her at her table and chair.
Her pronounced pretty eyes
were the ideal quirk for gypsy fortune tell work.
Green, like beach glass.
How might they see me?
How can she be expected to espouse
All Ahead for me there?
At that table & chair there, exposed
to that flea market crowd?
Men, off to gun tables.
Women, drawn up the way
where puppies are given away
(hunting dogs no doubt)
How Soul-intimate can my gypsy and I get?
Can she pull out
All that’s in
In all of this dumbed down din?
It’s delicate business…
There’s this inarticulate air here
Against which…without a hitch..
.I want to wonder over every word..
I want to wonder for every prophetic word.
How can we do this with clothes on? Absurd.
.
I can see, by the chance
of this damned near full moon,
I’ll watch the line of my breath dance
just off the distant treeline,
Off to tomorrow’s full sun soon.