You can see black sheep
Gracefully moving plumb up the ramparts
Of an old fort. There is no one around that might
Think it’s impossible. No one that could
Give away their eyes. You can see white crows
Ready to get rid of their voices.
No grand piano in the inner courtyard,
No broken keys and strings
To complain about. Tourists are welcome
To curse the weather instead.
I am shy to divulge the location of this house. Of course, there are many spiritual and intellectual giants among mere humans who always know and can tell you right away exactly what lurks behind the veneer, but I have never been sure if the spirits of the people and other beings who used to dwell somewhere ever wanted to have any connection with the beauty of the abandoned place.
Coyotes wrap themselves into paper towels.
Moons chase each other, tin-sounding moons
over chicken wire fences. Decrepit
gods can’t help thinking about frozen
legions of ants, drunk plumbers from
faraway countries, lost in thunderbolt forests,
rotten towers trudging in search of
bent rusty nails.