Tuesday Morning
Clouds are illustrations,
Or paintings,
Or images downloaded from the internet.
Burrow into my flesh lenses, tangerine clouds,
Headlock my optic nerves until they say uncle.
Nothing as useless as skies and clouds;
Nothing as useless as being human.
Wild ducks occupy the summer kitchen.
I cook and wash for them.
They wake me at night quacking metallic poems.
Awake or asleep, big deal! Arses coldly wet constantly,
How would you like it? No martyrs, no saints among the ducks.
Frogs are chiropractors, uncricking the vertebrae of five billion.
Bright green chamois, heartfelt, longing eyes.
Mud; Flies; Wet grass; Pools.
I’m erect as a fork stuck into garden soil.
Little contact, just the soles of the feet.
And yet what monsters lurk in the caverns of my imagination.
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