I
can hear little chicks inside my dream
They
sound painted they sound
like
a feather’s most profitable idea
They
sound off the sound is off
like
something in the fridge several
days old
beans in
a different world, a newborn bean
cantaloupe whatever it is that’s our last stage
our
vegetable matter the
world’s last vegetable lamb
This
is no Easter candy not Chik’n or
counterfeit beef
to
have a beef with a fist in the
feast A wooly aphid
parades
like a cleaning pad over the rough face of a tree
What
does the tree care one must not only ask
but
discover a method for asking must
harvest the fiber
to
process the text embroider the plant onto
the sheet
along
with initials our love so natural
now reminded of its seed that the seed foresees
its
own flower likely has nothing to do with the eye
it’s
shaped as but who knows what
knows what
*
I
can hear little hiccups inside my drain
The
disposal needs to be addressed Dear disposal,
dear waste somewhere, the carcass of a deer
From
the interstate, my love, driving, can find
and
count every deer, coyote, fox he
animates
the
field, brings the forest into focus there,
there It’s a wonder we say the world a singular thing
a
monocle resting on the galaxy’s plump cheek
the
other planets mere moles no I can hear
little
hiccups inside my brain everyone has
their own
trick
to make them stop to resurface the
esophageal road
There’s
been a hiccup like an accident bone
exposed
metal
plates stacked in the cupboard of one’s body
not
to be taken out no matter the
guest We’re asked
to
think about what we have, to interrogate need
What’s
negated by terror Here is one more torn
interior
to
tour one more acorn of light to misplace
in
the hillside that
swollen cheek taunted by
each
gauzy cloud that does nothing for it ok
it does
something tossing out beads of ice of rain
as
if the earth had flashed its parts or
at least
outstretched
its arms, made hysterical by desire
like
the rest of us with no rest in us
*
I
can earn little checks inside my dream for
my dream job
To
knit a rind in which to enclose the wheel of sun
and
its gooey light To assign the barnacle to
the shipwreck
To
oversee the wound as it woos the throb To
edit the house’s
biography
of the last rooted tree To tempt
the glacial sadness
to
carve We are our own misinterpreted
evidence
our
own misdeal or mystic our own bento
box
into
which the lunch of our being is divvied out among
the
organic compartments our limbs
either rogue noodles or chopsticks
already
snapped apart ready to be
used
regardless or regard more the zebras dressed up as tall grasses
a
meter’s ability to discern the worth of coins the
coin-fed
the
corn-fed and the confession the
Mexican egg filled with confetti
despite
having never been cracked Was
it that we wanted
to
be amazed or a maze Was it that we
wanted to identify the husk
holding
our succulent kernel a core
we can’t give up
that
punk shielded by us shielded from us
a
two-way mirror Where is the power:
seeing oneself
or
seeing another That the mirror
itself limits our conceptions
of
empathy suggesting as it does that we can
deposit ourselves elsewhere
cash
in, cash out invest The terms already decided
Do
you agree to the terms
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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