about that blood
but it does not
make me think, it only
repeats cleverly all the things.
felt slippers. ugly but warm.
so much of value like that,
no shelf appeal, but hey,
does the job. make of it
what you can. all right I say
here. this is what I make
of our life together on this
-- and now the selection
of cliches rolls out in my
inner eye: this rock, this
lonely planet, this tiny ball
in deep space, this hell.
I go deep into the soil of it
warming among roots who
are my friends. yes we have
lost much, they say, but
not all. not all. that would be
impossible.
(Written after reading about
climate activists throwing tomato
soup on Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.)
here comes
massaging my melancholy with
piano music, red berries, oats.
the sharp stony peaks soften
under moss imperceptibly.
oh water oh rain, do what you're
known for. any kitchen needs
a recipe for a distinguished
dark fruit cake. it says. my
kitchen comes up wanting,
no such recipe to be found.
how loud the street sweeper,
the leaf blower, after the rain.
sweet singing in the choir.
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