Heavens on Sunday March

Tuesday, April 4, 2023

White concrete poured poorly,
The edges pink and undercooked.

All of it sous vide, surfeit with
choreography like a stuffed mailbox

green grass, dip dyed
clouds pinned back with barrettes.

Windmills and cows speckled
peppercorns on the verdant felt

And telephone wires strung like
cheap floss. Arbitrarily, rudely

houses due and suddenly.
Gas stations and a silo, a single

silo singing a loving song to the moon
Or the little sliver of her shoulder

showing. She smiled the thinnest
way, throwing her ambivalence

into the sky. Wedding rice is bad
for birds but so are windmills.

So are babies and baklava
and honey bees that sting

The earth bloated and docile,
four tiles leaking water through

my bathroom floor. I think
it’s the grout that has cracked,

I think I am falling in love with you
dancing in the dirty rain, smelling

methane, green grass, and
goosebumps on my forearms.

Shivers are breaking and the dead
did die, the dead died, look

at all this green wheat. The dead
do not butter bread.