other animals

having made peace with the rocks that
I call shoes, grown accustomed to
the furry creatures living in
my sinuses and the shows they
watch into the deep oven night

I watch one fork of lightning free
the tree that dropped only small sour
fruit, and return to arranging
oyster shells to resemble a
wave and ask is this the dream it’s

so quiet here it’s hard to hear
the song of my empty stomach
or the rattle of the bones of
the dead like pills stuck in my throat