WRAPPED AROUND ELEANOR
NATHAN SPOON
This isn’t a patch unless we don’t know what
is happening or where Eleanor, in the sinew
of the moment, is. Presently we are falling into
the sensuality of what isn’t, into what is free
inside the taste of honeycomb. Unable to say
what this is like, we are gazing happily at branches
exploding into seasonal outer blooming. Warmth
from the sun is almost real, especially when it
touches the living needles of pine trees so their
scent softens the breeze of an afternoon. Fast
is the preferred posture. Fast makes pollen land
prolifically on another earth. We found Eleanor,
exactly the way she found herself, with rabbits
running through her hair like untamable charms.