O good-bye already songbirds heavy-handed or cargo plane

Slanting beneath a pause in my sentence. And below the wisdom of the Franklin Mint

A mechanic’s rates are smiling outrageous she pushes you and your face droops

Like Nixon’s a cold wind falling over at the foot of its easy chair.

Fewer today in tent villages or water towers offices in pink shirts

Or not even never it seems a great distance away a parsec and so we split the genes apart in the bathroom

And water shot up, threw out in front of the boat and for days little guys, no change,

Hung in the trees cracking wise always finishing or and some flowers.

The Canadian with his hand on your thigh sometimes down in as summertime there we were, puffing, huffing

Or where I climbed every day my attorney on my back cargo

A bluebird smell in the air and we paused to smelt our initials

At least down the smokestack my old television

Thus. I would want, if I were a bluejay, one small night

When the hearse develops a tear gas gun or electric shocker

Green enough and late risers wake in pear trees or with raisins

Paused against their door. An avalanche. A stampede without the brutality

That cows or cattle making so much noise getting out of their chairs to join us

Or perhaps an abandoned train or a dead train or tungsten forgiving me

And ribbons in my hair while cargo stands aside, astonished and running sneakers

Once blessed but usury rolling by in a cadillac

Whose dress falls around singing acutely its brand-name

Explodes heavy ghost the lawyer throws down his hat

In his folly. Don’t I am I at the back of the hat-throwing line?

I have your hat this season smoothly I’m in your dirty cartoon!

Yesterday China was grinning while you and yours flung back black beans and tortillas

At least kablouey went the bathroom A cherry bomb A tea cup

In your arms again in lock down. A pause in my luminosity seen through the shower curtain

Who where we got down an entire eight ball

And the fisherman’s lunch hour and the green duration

On the tent village lying under my dog belly.

So and smoothly a tiny minuscule bird with no real physique to speak of perched on a flower

In, as in leaning against the fire plug in the middle of an open field.

What is it are afraid of falling to her quietly, soft?

A traveling salesman sees new lips, her post office

And what’s more her father the tractor the horse farmer gets up from dinner to answer the door

Invites him for tea “My venison!” “My virile dear!” “My good sir!”