Across landscapes, within
Earth’s green circles, every river
is an arrow. Each tree
is a chance. There is dirt
on my hands, and those are chickens
in our yard. We shroud ourselves
with protective feathers. In a garden
(mine, I suppose) a lone bluebell
bends moonward.
That blinking stoplight
is just a guide to keep your name clear
and your heart sick. Let’s fix something:
you and me. We need more time for fog
and silvery passivity to lapse, so here—
you oil this valve, and I’ll tape up
this cardboard box. Movement is nearly
all I can give. Once in a while,
I do. I do. My bare feet slide nicely
into your pickup truck.
Goodbye, No One
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 