Fragments

My imagination
Wears running shoes.
No gazelle, she;
Sometimes no grace
As she gambols with more gusto than wit

Unafraid of the pratfall, the foolish;
Holy fool, she.
While I grasp
For the neat phrase, the sexy sullen word
She spits a whorl of dust and runs
Away from any certainty
And gets on jags with song lyrics
And croons those two sentences in my ears
Until I make them fit
Someplace
She says the fitting’s the thing, after all.

She says nothing’s ever wasted
Not even time, if it eats through the rough
Inside and inside

My imagination
She won’t be part and parceled
She knows what she knows
The whole of the whole

I’m embraced by her long shadows
Danced around by outstretched arms
Myself, and myself the other
A passionate photonegative
Spinning, swirling, and falling
Like two strands of gossamer
Endlessly tangled by a child.