The ratchet walk of a pigeon pumping itself up and down a woodpile, a crow hopping like a one-legged man, cows and a cheerleader practicing their field assignments in the same gophered field.
A white rose in her sister’s eel basket.
She’s not like you, she’s inside her clothing with the birds and the rabbits. Moanmongers swimming in her, yes, and a recipe for smoke, but a crow is only a shadow that eats and her spiritual advisor is ice cream.
There were two of us until you started paying attention.
And now are we the wooden beam or the saw?
Let’s imagine a future for tense verbs, a comforting late gesture like a streetlight’s blossom. With the present we are content, but we’ve surfaced, the dark receding forest a passage, the crow’s voice (sharp, wooden, unforgiving) another.
I believe I’ve been assigned to a twitch.
How come the sky’s still here?
Something you’d ask a baby. If the baby wasn’t your baby.
So I say that to the worm struggling on the hook. I say that to the shadow with crow’s feet. I say that and I say that.
The twitch ripening.
You could say I was still pending. A gradual I was not departed of. How surrendered had I become?
Something a baby would answer wordlessly.
If the answer wasn’t your answer.
The twitch was looking. The twitch was never left alone. The twitch found itself in suspension and released, with another attraction waiting, a couple whose happiness was a bomb the couple enjoyed exploding.
The King of Zaire ate squash with his fingers, so we all ate squash with our fingers. We lived in Zaire.
The queen says thank you for the king and for the beautiful limbo, with money and privilege, for the position she’s in, which happens for the moment to contain her, instead of a real queen, who has never existed.
The pigeon’s eyeing the cheerleader. She’s happy and needs milk. She’s multiple and leading the verbal encouragement with physical suggestion. She’s completing and. She’s next and away. She’s happy and bitter. I’m yours now if the answer wasn’t your answer.