One solitary whistle,
in the distance,
late at night,
is enough to
take you places.

who, but I, thinks
of the shattered eardrums of pigeons

exhaustion throttling down to plum blossoms

there’s a worldwide allegory of the cell, 
and Play-Doh turns to stone overnight

the wind is showing the work
in the margins of her long division

everyone’s in handcuffs on the front lawn
and I’m panicked about pesticides on clover

how many cats is enough cats

a pretext and just being

pack me in with oranges 

stepping off the word
to come into,

running across. Winter. not toward. Spring

trying out imaginary cellophane goggles

when the wind died we held our breath as long as we could
 

In the dry season, as the stones surfaced like turtles, he believed they were floating on the water. As the drought progressed, he began to think the stones were the stream. But now, knowing that the human body is comprised mostly of water, he believes he is the stream.