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?
sam coren 