At different times, I have seen the Universe from our back porch: reflected in the Butterfly Bush; reflected in kids bouncing on the trampoline; reflected in Evolution Craft Brewing's Lot No. 6 Double IPA; reflected in Walt Whitman or Mario Santiago Papasquiaro's poetry, or Kerouac's "On the Road," or Thomas Merton; reflected in scooping up the dead baby bird that fell from the tree.
The breeze blows over fresh cut grass as I read...
The world gives you itself in fragments / in splinters:
and
in 1 flaming summer you catch bits of the universe licking its face
the moment 1 indescribable girl
rips her Oaxacan blouse,
just at the crescent of sweat from her armpits
with the hoppy taste of IPA still dancing on my tongue and tickling my brain as crickets take over the soundtrack, backed by cars and diesel engines from the highway.
THIS is happy hour.
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