from Unfinished Bird
Immediate green heat, highway sounds far away and closer. Dull scudding leaf of last season, bright new growth on old hedge, rampant violets, flattened triangular Drumstick wrapper. Small kicks to my left hand here, baby. Cold pink of impatiens. A moment of silence for what I once wanted so badly now don't out of habit— a rabbit's foot to hold in my pocket and pet a grassy quadrangle, sugar cereal. * What you see what you get—this unraveled acronym— it's important to find your place in the world. Bad things are happening everywhere to good people: an obscure volcano grounding starlets in Europe, Port-au-Prince flattened on TV, I'm too close to the screen, while on the other side of the roof and the trees, the stars are lost baby teeth, milk-whet incisors of finity— yes, let's make it mean that. * Don't write about children. Don't write about dying parents or war or jasmine. Don't write about Christmas or siblings—they suggest the non-subjective parts. But the world is round and navigable. To play it like a theremin or it plays me—the big screen a Van de Graaff machine conducting to the follicles. A warm, late-June afternoon before the turning electric fan the air is thick and visible, thickening with electricity, your eyes flicker behind your lids while you sleep. Horripilation: again, I'm stricken how some things can only be said. * If the sky solidified and rained pieces of itself—broken blue colorways of water— what would scream into the abhorrent vacuum? The air apparent is infinite and invisible. Everything is already exhausted the fourth day of August. Weeds, skirts gone limp and dingy with humidity, the great displacer. If I could empty myself of self and be your shell what would step up in my stead? Crickets. There are sets within sets of themselves.