on the rocks, fabulously tired.

but the cygnet in me sleeps to grow.

yeah it’s a blunt tool this inheritance of speakability

but okay, it’s all here,

if you know how to work with it.

the fenceline: that’s where things get tense;

the contours of enclosure, the press against the flesh.

there’s that, but you can cross frames of heartmind

in a sunken boat. even years.

a little black and yellow bird skirted our path this afternoon.

hot as a 7-Eleven hot dog display, and weeks of drought.

the river’s there but no one swims in it.

I put a bowl of water out and guess who came?

a cardinal, a rat, a robin, a bunny.

what a thirsty town.

qué calor,

where’s the thunder?

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