✿ communication

I know I don’t speak for others.
But no matter what else is going on, I can feel
that, glancing
up from where I’m writing—
and I write every morning and what that means is I play
every morning—all is made
perfect by the sight
of a vulture flapping suddenly
by, curving
its grey-black wings
against the ethereal
blue of heaven.

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just another

morning, the shadow
of a bird
on the fence.
the bird itself
i presume
on the roof, the sun
behind it, behind
me. singing
i imagine.
the fence itself, wooden
weathered. dew drips
from end of
green canoe,
overturned—an indecent
degree of beauty.
a love too much.
a man
cracking open

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OK

Sign here
on this mysterious document.
You now will never
be admired by the intelligentsia.
They won’t even pay attention to you.
You’ll be like a fly at the board meeting.
The one they wave away as they open their briefcases.
The one that zips from the room
before it’s over.

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✿ reckoning

Desire is a cow
galumphing down
city streets,
black and sweaty,
past the white
shiny cars,
the people in suits.
Some of us laugh,
some are annoyed, some
scared. It
doesn’t belong
on cement,
doesn’t even know
what a traffic light is.
The game’s up.
Pay attention.

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i’ll be

i’ll be a top
spinning.
i’ll be a cork
bobbing.
i’ll be flowers
blooming.
i’ll go
where you want me to go,
God.

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your one and only

something beautiful
always wants
to be born.
how to be
in every moment
the midwife?
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All this ragged longing

All this ragged longing
kept hidden.

As though I must always
present
always a finished
product—
always and only
answers.

Who can answer though
those thirteen birds
that just
fluttered into
the skeleton hands
of the tree outside
my window, its trunk
obscured—if it exists at all—
by a wooden fence,
the ones
that just fluttered
again, re-arranged
themselves, became
twelve?

You’re becoming more
like a goat. Like the ones
you can’t see now. Sinking
into your body. But
your body is not
your body. It’s spiritual—
every hair and every
burp.

It rises.

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