. . . and the fact that you know, the—the rule
of opposites, the rule of attraction is to sit
on the counter letting mice eat the peanut
shells. The rule is to keep quiet if possible,
tempered if not. The rule of the grass
as fake plastic in which seeds attempt to grow
allowed for a re-opening of the appeal, just
to let the points of contact form themselves.
A grackle sitting on a gravestone surveys
the cemetery. Several maples, one named,
all old and knotty. What living things do
is come together, whether violently or by
looking at the end date of an order, make sure
boundaries are sufficiently established, or
failing that, productively breached. I hate
nothing except certain problems I have,
the integration of such behaviors as would be
acceptable by most standards, yet if
the notice of appeal is filed by that date,
there may be reprieve, there may be proper
connection, there may be crystallized papaya
and contact out of solace, not misdirection.
I admit responsibility lies with the wooden spoon
mashing fruit into the vodka;
it would seem to me the party who
fantasizes is lost. Our rich interiority becomes
like a flock of migrating birds in a tree
whose leaves are just beginning to show.
When discovered they move, make noise
or disappear and the fact that their position
is adversely affected by it may object on that
level where attention is negotiable. In a certain
sense I never left that kitchen, never left the
counter—all scenes co-exist since they
can’t be reconciled. This is not news.
It explains being drawn to porches on that
basis, saying listen, you have no authority to do
anything without interrogating the atmosphere;
why the river smells like the ocean, why everything
becomes more possible and conflicted
in late spring. It’s irresponsible to blame
the weather, irresponsible to say
this, what are you doing in connection with
something that during any other season,
any other month would be unthinkable?
Reconciliation is internal, twisted, and
like the trees seldom labeled with
a name that illuminates it.