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.

souls

Northern seas and clouds fill the valley with ghosts and outlaws.
Jade masks laugh at traffic cones,
robots wear them as fancy hats,
monsters drink tequila from them.
People hate robots. They love to talk to
house cleaners, car dealers, plumbers, tax advisors,
everyone with a clot of lonely soul somewhere in heaven.
It is unbearable, you see, to throw your words
into the vast array of understanding chasms,
one within another, insensible
to sorrow, fear and all the trifles and trinkets of existence.
But it is fine to ask what you would do with a chunk of frozen sea,
place it in your backyard or have it for breakfast.