Or

I

A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.

II

There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.

 

(-4,762)

In the wake of a horror story between the eyes and heels
Of Artemis and Apollo rabbits were savoring the
Souls of the Presocratics. Animals hate squares and circles, you know.
They avoid straight lines either.
When they dance, the Pied Piper dies with all his doubts.
Crows dress like dead fish when they are happy.

 

souls

The roadkill are fain to visit us at our humble abodes.
They are beautiful distortions, all sorts of creatures
speaking a poisonous language we faintly recognize,
even a few fish with big mouths. The words
we don’t understand dissolve them. Impartial eyes
place them between those words in the air.
We don’t want to know what they usually do.
Let us just say, they laugh at our expense.
Or they like to panhandle in the fields,
languidly becoming heraldic. They know what
humanity is. They know how to erase it from our souls.

schm

In a weeping clay forest
animals yawn
looking for a weather report
written on the pants of
a suicide. Pieces of wardrobe
have sunk into
the endless battle of
clouds and shopping carts.
Animals dally around
sniffing at the undies, schmundies,
the socks, the schmocks,
the scarves, their happy
eyes on the verge of
a thousand deaths.

irrational