sometimes the spirit moves through you,
and sometimes it don't
sometimes papa is home, and sometimes he's out to lunch.
who will survive? none
who with thrive? this one.
I do apologize for every note of every song that's sung amok atop the the calling pyramid homes. these mushy fingers, which write notes on a treble staff, call the diaphragm on the telephone and tell it nice laugh, tell the druggist pocket laughing stuffing hardware not to laugh.
find a clear and unadulterated path
through the woods that though quiet are not quite wilderness. they don't have that here
which specific feeling comes to mind?
a bird alights atop a tin gutter, the gutter is my heart
the bird is free and universal, comes from the wide white sky, leaves to wide white sky,
but for the solitary sound of clattering feet on the eave, the beak that taps a warning
here we are and here is my flightlessness
I miss you, and call to you. the tin is hot.
dog in the doghouse, forgive me if I have not given you all,
i know it's cold in winter, hot in summer, not quite home.
my house is your house, and the fiberglass igloo in the crook by the back porch, where the leaves would gather and rot, hot, covering the writhing wetness of worms like bandaids, wrapped in little ribbons and divisible.
the porch screens torn