enough to be lucky

Dead speak; asking is water
a crushing spirit
after all?

Rain sings softly (insatiably)
to my eyelashes.

We didn’t know the body
was a tool;
Flute
Bassoon
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.

Country Living

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.

Moving into a House with Two Mice, Stinkbugs, and a few Curious Ants

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
of rust/crusted/cracked/worn.
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, abstracted

Music in a room warms
your blood,
splits your dry lips so
one round red drop
(an island)
escapes;
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
drop escapes
an island

asking instead of the chandelier
Danger, danger;
the afterlife is here:
by white folding
chair legs, music

splitting your
dry island, a side of red
loops, or strings
saying warm, instead your
round blood.

Grocery Bag in Alley Sonnet

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
you cannot
awake.

He is curled, laying,
half sunken (already)
Dozing in the Maple shade;

There is a butterfly
in his daydream
with
small rounded wings,

I told you she was not helpless.
Her own little body lifts
and falls
and surges and rocks

and travels and lulls with
the hibernating
Carboniferous animal
whose feet are now green,

whose soul believes
it is always spring.

Birds always gather when day wants to begin

Walk with thin-legged spiders
for the day,
quiet so as not to wake the birds
any earlier
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.