If We Forget
Sentimental, is what
it is—the goose (my protector
shadow)—on a nest
in the median on Main Street—
while the river overflows
its banks . . .
Someone stuck a cup of
water beside her.
I think, I don’t think
I can handle this, the cars at
rush hour. There is only
so much bravery left—
and breadsticks from Little
Caesar’s (i.e. Crazy Bread)—
on any given Thursday.
If you don’t understand why
this is important, I’m sorry.
Love’s not dead in us.
I know a thing then, know it in layers,
clothes coming off until the soul perceives it
the world touching a thought
a funnel of naked . . .
There are still ways to gain (criminal), Dear Cinderella . . .
How utterly relieved then to breathe happily the dirt off such
standing in the fog on all stumps,
breathing actual mosquitoes . . .
I couldn’t do it, so I didn’t know what mattered yet, not really
no wine on the big bruised table
I awoke from the dream, wind suddenly visible
The way the screen in the door sucked in
The way it puffed back out . . .
Half Snow, Half Rain
To liken everything to
substance. You’re about to
live for this. Make the edges
out of habit such a thing you can’t abide
because you were also mothered into being
while it snowed soundlessly for hours in nearby fields.