and though I’ve made so many plans
when I look in the mirror by accident
before a shower a small bird tumbles
down the stair forgetting about wings and so
we come to this moment when momentous
things may be mouthed into the shabby mirror
of the sky and from the neighbor’s apartment
something like a snort or sigh
dear friend, we’re it not for the tears held back—
but no, let me start again. After all, it is spring
and the half-clinging leather of newly uncovered
corpses satisfies the flies. But that’s not it either.
Somewhere around here there is a small book from
the past that I’ve carried for years and never read.
I cough and February again
a joke the smirking wind might make to
Enkidu in the land of shadow
but this even older
chair a little dog
sharing some warmth
something other
than dust
falls from
my mouth
I think of all the groundhogs I haven’t
known on this windy day in almost May
scurrying away with powerful claws and
the face of my dog bred to chase
their kind staring in amazement a
never-sated hunger in those bones
under my eyelid all the long summer
grit from the forgotten pyramid
my grasswe(e)t toes too long to trod over any meringue
a golden bubble chases the pigs
while Nobody plots
late unrhymable light my splitting shoe the same
Her trilling toes through
morning-star-wet grass
over calm water an orange concierge ogles a pint of rhyme
What solar-powered syntax will break through the city’s thick walls later wielding a heavy pen he stumbles never to blink again
But the pen won’t start so the precious possibility with a suitcase secretly packed disappears beyond the hill
Where the music comes from on those nights though despite his best attempts we left feeling as though we hadn’t eaten at all
Bubbling on the stove warm nonsense on TV I misspell the important words of other people’s stories on the line nothing drying my legs sore the floor somewhat spotless what else to binge nothing stops this war
should have had iced coffee but trees start to stumble the hot earth becomes I tell myself breathe look at the leaves completely still August 30
at the end of the day whisky cicada hit send a cool breeze down that road in any direction you end up laughing
if there’s no ink in autumn
a mouthful of berries to bed
the wrong way a rope
around both legs
I lift the pen but why my eyes slide down this poison face
but the sound of a bird I can’t
the glow of the sun
sinking what
else can I say
I waited too long and they’re already cleaning up so I grab some trash and throw it away they tell me to keep moving
when I slept in the forest those long years between research grants
salad days between immunity and editing
people always said I gave up too easily and mostly through song for some reason but that’s really none of my business you see I’m only paid to write these instruction manuals
leafing at monster cello sorry
it’s these new plant-based teeth
and the weight of this uniform from lack of sasquatch in the spring
did you see it that time like a flash of silver at the corner of your eye but never mind it was nice to see you again and we really should get together and no that’s OK I have utensils at home
we were all impressed that he had trained himself to overcome the sweating and fits that accompanied riding the elevator to the top floor where all those who helped you get to where you can finally hide the body in peace once you return those calls but really there’s nothing out there but the occasional chirp the grinding
sound of some industry in the distance that we all struggle to identify and some vague concern about retirement which tends to stay asleep except during certain phases of the moon in early autumn before the serious shopping starts and we depart for one day the air goes out and not every part of us is of use and of course those unseen forces you
go on about we peel off and set to one side to admire the fine and final finial detail but then we risk wandering past the border of our little park where we make miniature watercolor landscapes to please the passerby no matter how full of rage or foreboding before retiring once more to the dark closet with the machine that spits out hot air though today even that might be welcome as we question every word
choice and how many bodies we’re inhabiting while we wait for a more immediately impressive one to leap to the lips and be able to sing clear in the narrow streets where we wasted our youth on such games as need not be mentioned here though we remain softly pleased that its secretions were not the same as those found by the famous detective or his brother for that matter
haiku and other animals 