The cat’s jaw breaks awake inside this house dark with humidity.
Those birds always sound so beautifully useless.
Morning wanes when the first word emerges.
A sudden flood of thunder, or a squirrel runs across the metal roof.
Singing with his soft, purple mouth, What would I do / without my teeth, I wonder what he would do.
I should look at you before I look through you.
Must bite into my food to taste it.
I’m still trying to make this window a calm, cloudy square.
“I can’t remember what I’m saying,” you say.
Whenever the microwave’s rotating tray derails, it feels like my life’s approaching its abrupt end.
A quilt can be hung on any wall, like this.
The grayer the sky, the greener the tree, the greener the tree, the grayer the sky.
My cat looks up at me like she doesn’t know what a poem is.
Illustration: I walk to the stairs so I can walk on them.
Infomercial: only ten minutes left.
The moral, of course, is a horse at the pet store.
She slowly tried the stairs that tried to slow her.
While I read the plum-colored curtains’ folds, the parking lot fills with rhetoric.
This is a drawing to prove that clouds still exist.
Under the obvious weather, obviously under the weather, under the oblivious weather, obliviously under the weather.
Lately I’ve been watching a single ant’s speck crawl outlines on the wall, lit by the room’s only lamp.
I trust the mail will soon appear in my mailbox, so I listen.
A thin sheet of Brussels sprouts’ leaves lying left over in the sink.
A mind to thank the mind that thinks to thank the word for a word we do not see.
For example, earlier this evening, when the phone rang, I just let it ring.
Sprinkling oats over my yogurt, I hope this one life stays about average.
The land moves under the weather and the weather moves over the land.
I spoke with him the other day, by which I mean he spoke to me.
The black plum we pass between us, spilled juice the grass gladly absorbs.
Parental Idleness (2)
We killed the morning watching cat videos.
The field a field I’m standing in.
The dog pisses into Buddha’s open palm.
If you prefer, pretend this isn’t happening.
This is your island of sanity. (Thanks for listening.)
I say my name into a mirror, watching myself watch myself.
I reach for the pencil behind my ear, but it’s not there.
The field stretches like an endless trampoline.
“Are you hungry?” “No, are you hungry?” “No.”
Fog pressed between the flexing remainder of trees.
What the slick slice of raw sweet potato means to you, and to me.
An ad from inside a newspaper rides the air across a residential street.
All over the wet morning lawn, bamboo shoots had sprouted loudly overnight, already knee high.
Just a bit of hamburger dropped hot onto the carpet.
The hope that a bus will soon be here.
There is no apology here, and there is no apology there.