ginger tea
the quietest evening in recent memory. you can
hear the lightbulbs, like little campfires
you weren’t prepared for this, and now you wonder
if anyone will notice
the quietest evening in recent memory. you can
hear the lightbulbs, like little campfires
you weren’t prepared for this, and now you wonder
if anyone will notice
i woke up late and haven’t played the flute
dreams of familiar people in un-
familiar situations stole the morning
i straighten my spine and go on
a warm spring night in town–the bare-midriffed college girls
practice their english lessons on deaf and single-minded
handlers outside the theater. the smirking crescent
moon has seen it all before
sometimes you want to wear your underwear
to bed [when the train passes, baying low,
about a mile to the west] like a memory of hands
it’s not a weakness. it’s faith
flimsy sunglasses balancing on a cracked gourd
a wristwatch wrapping the stub of a broomhandle
day after day, who is it that brings me tea?
a bathrobe, worn by a scarecrow