Wrong Number
Wrong Number
The urge to comfort everyone for what happened
to them in your dream.
The recurring belief that a pulled-up daisy, roots still
clumped with dirt, makes for everyone a perfect gift.
The impossibility of all other presents.
To recognize your wife in a silhouette lineup
and still to say nothing.
Bookcases that are doors.
A tree full of pennies for children.
Dust under the covers vs. spot-lit dust.
Dust as convict escaping.
The souvenir trays at the fair.
A magnificence of auctioneers
and their sullen apprentice.
The need to sweep anywhere outdoors.
The need to shift the interior.
Years of wisdom on forcing a bulb.
The cool and the dark
and what doesn’t need them.
The illuminated globe of presidents.
The cinema’s illuminated milk.
Divorce.
To intercept a wave in the produce.
The strong urge to send it back.
What The Anvil
I’m not trying to tell the truth
I’m trying to hurt you
with these big these big these angry hands
I’m going to wait in the bathroom
for you to come home
getting ready for a fight
like they say spoiling for it
And yes indeed I am rotten!
like a badly preserved tiger
like a dead and mangy tiger
like there’s no shape
left to me but my head
