Endearing insistence. Forgetful prey.
This house has burned for 900 nights.
So it goes: tiny comfort, a brief surprise.
The acting out of
something sinister.
Wicked little chore, wicked little
here-&-there, burn & burn &
burn.
Lonely pioneer. Ignoble officer.
In the box: the framed syntax.
Trace the edges.
The rat banking
against the walls. Revile this act.
Sing it twice & it’s twice as nice.
If anger fades as it rises, folds itself
into a paper crane.
If happiness never wears a hat or meets
itself in the street
a broken picture frame
left on the curb.
If happiness were a hero smiling
down from a parade.
The snow keeps falling. A door leads
to another door to a room
I’ve never entered.
All the shops are locking their gates.
We hold our hands over our mouths
for warmth, huddle over
what is not being said.
We have our secrets we prefer to keep.
We do not trust what is too good.
A shadow moves beneath the door.
Winter waits & listens & promises its
worst.
& we go on preferring the intimacy
of an empty bed the clock
that ticks but does not
turn.
I will myself into a bird. I might be a sparrow
or a robin or a broken
plate. I might
not be any of these
things. I might hide
in the shed or sing a
wicked song.
I might sing e-i-e-i-o. I will myself
an audience—everyone claps
or sings or
does nothing. I will myself into a frame,
tuck in my arms, my
legs. Perhaps I begin
again, this time with a partner. Partner says
you sing a wicked song.
Partner says sparrow-dishplate-birdsong.
Partner says no, no, you’re doing it all
wrong.
I’m not
even trying
The ticket lost is long gone.
I’ve run out of things to sell.
The check bounced.
The phone lost your call
& then I lost your number.
I just put water on to boil.
I became distracted by
the headline: Five new ways
to a better body!
The train went express.
I accidentally took one too many
aspirin. I haven’t had
my morning cup of coffee.