The winds garnered our shadows to comfort jumpy birds. Shadows of hands, in particular, sculpted their nests into perfect circles for the bluest eggs, the most mellifluous of song.
***
The sun knew nothing of this.
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To turn oneself inside out repeatedly had dire consequences for the unshelled insides. The gods might be hungry to pluck away hunger (not to mention ourselves).
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You were hundreds of cities and one large ocean away, thousands of winding streets, millions of locked houses. The you that was never mine but pined for at sixes and sevens.
***
Many fear the new disease may have been manufactured in nefarious laboratories to set the First World off kilter.
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A lashing out accomplished nothing to write in the heavy tome in one’s stomach.
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Let’s do virtual coffee or lunch to discuss this matter thrown from our eyes and hands.
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How is it (really) that we go on and on with sunsets bleeding right through us?
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I realize the now as I write this is a perpetual now, your now, a peculiar time travel.
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What’s it like there in your desert sandbox, bird’s nest, bleeding sunset, your insides turned inside out by conjecture?
***
In the desert the mirage was a sign of confusion, normalized by the gathering sandstorm.
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The man removed his child’s bicycle from the truck to fill the tires for its own wind travel.
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I keep forgetting to fill out the census to be counted. It’s difficult to remember this fact.
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The things we hate can’t always be rightfully banished. Melancholy took the day and folded it down.
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I babysat your sadness last night and left before you woke. I handed off the baton to the restless ghosts of your house that find you charming.
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There were (then) things I wanted to tell you, but my voice became too hollow (shallow).
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There are no more refills on the medication that was to fix you.
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When I fell prostrate at the temple, I pulled my entire city of birds down to show you.
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(How) the poem celebrated its own polysemy with new semantic fields.
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But I fear this has all become (too) cerebral.
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Your morning cereal will return taste to your mouth, sensory perception.
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(And) a journey to the ocean will give back (real) water, salt, and movement before the demise in the face of the sun and (then) the moon that will follow.
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The river will offer tadpoles, wide-mouth bass, and shad staring at the sun.
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That book you are reading or writing has pages that may weigh you down and then wind-lift you into new buoyant nests in the trees with (your own) unhatched eggs.
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I don’t know how DNA is responsible for such things, the map in your brain can malfunction.
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There is birthday cake every day for someone. It’s okay to use your hands.
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The joker that was dealt offered a bizarre sense of humor; just make sure he doesn’t carry weapons.
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The mass casualties some said were a product of First-World living.
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It’s okay to feel anesthetized sometimes.
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To want so much, the bees at clover, the hands of the lost lover.
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Call your person; he or she is worried about you.