Heavens on Sunday March
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.