Dead speak; asking is water
a crushing spirit
Rain sings softly (insatiably)
to my eyelashes.
We didn’t know the body
was a tool;
Bagpipes in the rain;
I am on the verge of a broad
barren drone of cars behind
our patch of trees and vines.
Less than half of us
drive to Dairy Queen
for a treat.
Walmart had a sale on kiwis and
as if I’d been filled to the brimming
point with cow folk, I
did not need a package
of tropical fruit.
Instead, I paid for a nearly rotted
grapefruit at the next door Food Lion.
Boy, did that fruit low like a
sweat bee for my bristling tongue.
black back ant slips beyond
wrinkles in my paper bag:
Whole Foods and grease stained,
full of tea (Ilex paraguensis).
Canned applause in
the next room / behind
wooden corners in brown, green shadows, layered white paint
doorways. Don’t eat
even if the walls taste like mint.
Don’t pick on the remnants
Soon they won’t be yours.
Or, if you can’t carry the whole
house, don’t throw out all
of your paper bags.
Music in a room warms
splits your dry lips so
one round red drop
Waves of strings, or loops
The composer, you recall
asking instead of fries, a side
of broccoli, covered in mustard,
her music in a room full
of loops or strings, splits
your dry lips, so
one small red
asking instead of the chandelier
the afterlife is here:
by white folding
chair legs, music
dry island, a side of red
loops, or strings
saying warm, instead your
side-walls pasted geometric colors;
noses/eyes closing slowly slowly so
what’s ruminating takes a stride closer
holding plastic bags, poly-stretched and tan,
full of tumblers, full of long flat noodles
bunches into neat yarn balls and soaked in broth;
tumblers rumbling around in our stomach
bags, stainless steel plated and floating
the top left corner of mural. The pink
butterfly clips in blue/sunshine’s full hair
take off with the wind but won’t travel far
away from our city’s love. Spray model
life up and up so far the purple won’t drip
and bruise under smog skin with old watches.
A rock is an animal
He is curled, laying,
half sunken (already)
Dozing in the Maple shade;
There is a butterfly
in his daydream
small rounded wings,
I told you she was not helpless.
Her own little body lifts
and surges and rocks
and travels and lulls with
whose feet are now green,
whose soul believes
it is always spring.
Walk with thin-legged spiders
for the day,
quiet so as not to wake the birds
by slicing iceberg with a dull knife.
Deposit ends of dream shoelaces
into a paper mug in the window-
shelf by the bed.
Then shut those colored eyes
by a room emptied of light
where thin-legged spiders
can find you
but only dare to explore
before the birds.