I’m still. That’s how it feels.
I wait all winter for the animal to die,
raise its chin, look
into time. I
lack sun and Lord Tequila. I wonder
where good comes. Here in my head
I’m a herd of one, and rage, slosh unease like brine.
Mid-life, I waver at the sink
amidst a hacking cough, and hurt, the more the cure
recedes. I was on the bottom
of the upswing. I wanted boost. I set the pails
for use and kept a long flow.
But I have meant to climb, had wanted
every passerby to slow and pause
and be a mirror.
Sometimes nature’s wrong. Look at the runt I saved!
Look how each selection
is because of love. Ground down, look
how the gravel becomes a beach.
What did I choose?
I tend the meadow, take
pains like everyone,
play the numbers against the grief.
I huff the ducts of burning dust, and dream
a hot gulf.
I’m home, low-ceilinged. I too
would grow an avocado, my wooden core
In its defence, the year’s sprawl
is skulked by any piece of news.
I walk blocks, side-
step a young couple unloading needs
for the newborn, with ginger steps,
like drunks inside an earthquake.
I clutch a bundle of spirit
The river was easy. The cold, no.
It’s how we lied
that we kept things safe.
I raise the animal on creaky limbs
and nudge the water bowl.
I post the notes, I check
the links, new forecasts, catalogues and results
and think it best to think far less
about those things.
And rummage the vintage shops for tin.